


Strip

by obfuscatress



Category: Kingsman (Movies), Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Bartender!Merlin, Canon-Typical Violence, Kingsman is basically a strip club, M/M, Slow Burn, former stripper!Harry, stripper!Eggsy, stripper!Roxy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-04-12 14:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 77,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4482467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stripper AU. First and foremost he did it to pay the rent, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Friday nights are busy at the Kingsman club, Eggsy reminds himself, when he takes a quick look at the brimming audience from behind the curtain. On the pole, Roxy slides down with a shit eating grin in black lace underwear, pleased at pulling off a move she’s been practising by day for weeks on end. A hen party in the back goes wild and the crowd roars along with it, Merlin smirking behind the bar as he hands out alcohol like water. Eggsy remembers the first time he set foot into the place and realised it’s one heck of a strip bar with their own unique clientele.

The lights dim down to signal the end of Roxy’s performance, who takes a deep bow even though she stands there next to a strip pole in tiny knickers, not the stage of the Royal Ballet. “Ladies and Gentlemen, this was Lancelot. Next up we’ll have Galahad,” Arthur announces and there’s another round of cheers. Roxy saunters off the stage while one of Arthur’s assistants gathers her clothes from the floor.

She comes through the curtains backstage and slips into a silk robe Eggsy’s holding ready for her. It occurs to him sometimes how complete their lack of inhibitions is and he says, “Ya killed it out there.”

“What a girl wouldn’t do to pay her rent and get a free drink.” She gives him a cheeky smile and cocks her head towards the stage where his music is about to start. He has a new performance to debut, something long expected by certain regular visitors of the club and Eggsy can already envision their faces as he comes to stand in the darkness right in front of the curtains.

He takes a careful look around in the half illuminated audience, recognizes some people but not many. His eyes land on a man in the front row. He’s in his fifties, glasses, clean cut suit, and funnily enough an umbrella leaning against the edge of his armchair. Handsome and somewhat out of place at a strip club with his pristine demeanor and half bored look, Eggsy thinks. The music and lights come on as a signal for him to start and Eggsy tugs his baseball cap over his eyes.

The audience goes eerily quiet as he slowly walks towards the front of the stage like he’s trying to seduce a girl on the street. Eggsy bites his lip and gives the first row his best doe eyes and shy smile. He catches Mystery Man’s eye and bats his lashes in the hope of some extra pay, but gets a spark of interest instead.

The first thing to go is his jacket, slow slide that stops it from getting caught. It’s his favourite, the black and yellow one he wears on a night out when the clubs are brimming with hot blokes. Eggsy lets it drop to the floor without a sound and fiddles languorously with the buttons at the top of his shirt. All eyes are on his neck as he undoes the two buttons and his collar falls open to expose the expanse of his neck.

He takes another look at Mystery Man before he makes a show of taking his shirt off. The stranger is fully focused on him even as Eggsy pulls the fabric over his head and momentarily vanishes in darkness. He arches his back while tugging the shirt over his head. It pulls his hat up and messes with his hair to give him a careless sort of look like he’s stripping for someone in particular and in private, which he supposes is the case, when he locks eyes with the suited figure again. The man breaks eye contact to look at the Kingsman necklace dangling at his throat like a sign of ownership. Eggsy clasps it in his fist and shoots the woman next to Mystery Man a quirk of the lip to regain his composure. Sultry expression, he reminds himself, and the words ring in his mind as clearly as the day Merlin shouted it from the back of the club at rehearsals.

Eggsy makes a show of taking off the baseball cap that sits lightly on his head, angled towards the ceiling to let the world see his well practised range of expressions. He takes a chance and leans forward to toss the hat at his keen observer with the umbrella, flashing a charming smile half at him and half at a group of women at the table behind him. One of them yells ‘hey sweetums!’ at him and on another night Eggsy might blow her a kiss for a bit of extra cash, but he’s still being watched by the man in the front row and he doesn’t want to lose that interest. Holding the man’s gaze, Eggsy cards his fingers through his hair and licks his lips.

There’s something intriguing about him, Eggsy thinks when the stage lights dim down a bit and he sees his audience better. Not exactly one of those businessmen types, but he still oozes of power. It’s not the only thing Eggsy notices. Mystery Man’s sporting a raging boner too, though his face is as calm as ever and Eggsy faces the urge to have him come undone right there in one of the club’s armchairs.

Eggsy kicks off his sneakers and he can tell the ladies in the back are both drunk and growingly restless, even if he’s rewarded with patient attention from the front. He takes a few steps back to the pole and bends sideways to grab it with both hands and slowly hoists his weight off the ground. Eggsy takes a deep breath as he gets his legs up in the air in a display of his strength. He wraps a leg around the pole and places the palm of his lower hand down on the ground. Someone cheers and another person joins in as he does a split upside down with the grace of a circus acrobat.

This is what people come to Kingsman for, after all. The first strip club he ever visited had a bunch of girls meekly danced holding onto a pole in a mirrored room with pink lights, but there was none of that at Kingsman. They were a dozen athletic performers, who admittedly did take their clothes off, and Merlin, the bartender with a set or two of his own. The people were wild for it. To Eggsy’s delight that included Mystery Man, now hiding his arousal with Eggsy’s baseball cap.

Fucking hell, he thinks at the sight of it, and tries to keep himself in control long enough to get his legs over his head once and then descend safely back onto the ground. Eggsy can feel the blood that has pooled in his skull rush straight downwards and  swallows thickly, because this show seems to go both ways tonight.

With shaky hands he works his belt open and forces himself to look away from the stranger at the front and direct a cocky smile at a lonely soul or two across the floor, until he’s got his confidence back and lets his jeans pool around his ankles. Eggsy steps out of them and in the heat of the spotlight he’s publicly half hard and earning a lot of whistles. It’s one of those moments when he realises how ridiculous his job really is, literally having to rip off his pants on stage to the delight of others and a bit of cash. Amidst it all he still holds Mystery Man’s attention.

At the end of his set, the lights dim down and he takes a bow like Roxy before him, his stage name announced and celebrated with cheers. The man in the front row gets a glass of whisky served by Merlin himself and he tips it towards Eggsy with a toast. The flush Eggsy’s been trying to hide burns on his cheeks as he walks off the stage with a comment about his arse having half the crowd bursts out in laughter.

He dips backstage and right into a robe offered by an already dressed Roxy. “Bloody hell, did you see that?” he asks her still shaken up about the performance.

“I do believe you were the main attraction of the night. Expect a bonus from Arthur for that, sweet cheeks,” she winks at him and gathers her hair in a ponytail in front of his mirror while he digs around for a fresh pair of jeans and a shirt.

“Screw that. Did’ya see that guy in the front? Fuckin’ looked like he’s ‘bout to hold a lecture and come in his pants at the same time.”

“You mean the one in the suit and glasses?” Roxy asks and leans back against the dressing table. Eggsy nods and pulls on his clothes. “He came in minutes before your performance; I saw Merlin give him a seat. Must be quite a guy to receive special treatment like that.”

“D’ya reckon I should go check if he’s still there?”

“Monumentally bad idea, if you ask me,” Roxy says, but moves past him to peek through the curtain. “Still sitting. Might just be waiting for the ladies to get out.”

Eggsy chews on his lip and makes the decision to take his chances, just this once. He snatches his jacket from the back of a chair and hurries out the side of the dressing rooms. He takes a quick look back at Roxy, who shrugs, sighs and turns back to the mirror, before he barges out the door by the restrooms and pops up right at the back of the bar.

The stranger is seated a mere two metres from him, near empty scotch glass resting on the counter in front of him. The rest of the club gapes empty with no more sets to come and closing time being ten minutes past. Combined with the fact that Merlin only lets half sober people willing to offer up a fifty quid tip up front drink overtime to begin with, and even then it’s dependent on his mood, Eggsy wonders what the man’s still doing here. Merlin stands in the corner closest to him drying a glass with a damp rag and he shoots Eggsy the kind of look that says ‘this better be worth it’.

“Hullo,” Eggsy quips and takes the seat next to Mystery Man.

“Hello,” he says without even a hint of a smile, “I have your hat.” He sets it down on the counter and Eggsy pulls it towards himself, musing on the man’s posh voice.

“Ya coulda just left it here at the bar."

Mystery Man shrugs. “I was rather hoping to buy you a drink.”

Eggsy eyes him suspiciously, because it is technically not against club policies to socialize with customers, but he’s been warned that it has a tendency of ending badly. His suitor seems to take notice of this and says, “Ah, right. I forgot to mention I used to work here.”

“You?” Eggsy asks disbelievingly as Merlin serves him his usual after show beer.

“Yes, though it was years and years ago.” A fickle smile crosses his face. “Harry Hart,” he says and offers Eggsy him hand to shake.

“Eggsy,” he offers back and demands to know more about Harry Hart’s time at Kingsman.

“Well, I used to be Galahad back when Merlin here first started. It’s good business. Make money eagerly for a few years and Arthur makes sure you get an honest job somewhere where you can climb a career ladder. Once you get there you integrate another Kingsman, and the business keeps rolling, money keeps coming in for the old King,” Harry says casually not bothering to explain how exactly he switched out making a living in the nude to a tailored suit. Drawing back to his own topic, Harry asks, “Since Kingsmen seem to get free drinks these days, could I invite you to dinner instead. I assume that’s why you dance in the first place: getting food on the table.”

“I don’t know-"

“It doesn’t come with any preset conditions,” Harry cuts in, “I simply enjoyed your show.”

“Oh, I noticed,” Eggsy mumbles into his pint.

Harry wraps his hands around his scotch with the umbrella dangling off his right arm. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but you seemed to share the sentiment.”

“Well, umm, I can hardly deny that.” Eggsy is pinned under his demanding gaze and shrugs. It wasn’t exactly something he could hide, stark naked in the spotlights on a stage for everyone to see, and his interest is sparked again. He gets up, downs the rest of his beer and says, “Alright then. Dinner for two.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not happy with the way this turned out, but it's been a month and I didn't want to keep anyone waiting any longer. Without further ado, here's your 'dinner for two'.

For housing such a popular strip club, the streets around Kingsman are surprisingly quiet. Eggsy wanders up the wet pavement with Harry Hart strolling beside him, one hand clenched around a knife in his pocket out of habit. To him it seems they must look an odd pair: an old man completely at ease with an umbrella swinging from his arm and him, coiled tight as a spring.

“Nothing ever happens here, you know,” Harry Hart says reassuringly and glances down an alley curiously.

Not the least bit convinced, Eggsy huffs, “Yeah, twenty years ago maybe. Don’t mind me, mate, but your posh sort are top of the robbing demographic nowadays.”

“I can assure you I know how to defend myself.”

“Ever been looking down the barrel of a gun, bruv?” Eggsy scoffs and readjusts his sweaty grip around his pocket knife.

“Both ends as a matter of fact.”

Eggsy looks at him sideways and tries to strip thirty years off the rigid, well poised man walking beside him and imagine someone young and reckless, looking to make a bit of money to get by.

Harry lays a hand on his arm, and Eggsy tenses unconsciously. “Is Italian alright?” he asks, pointing towards a little restaurant on a side street reflecting a golden glow onto the brick walls in the alley. Vibrant laughter echoes in the thin space with someone’s knickers drying on a laundry line three stories up.

It’s sympathetic enough, so Eggsy nods and they duck into the shadows, Harry’s arm still grasping his own, while Eggsy’s other hand holds onto his knife with a death grip. Harry Hart’s face in the light has a touch of gentleness, a hint of a smile that is lacking in his business voice, and he casually says, “Used to taking a beating then?”

Eggsy blunders. “Sorry, what?”

“You’re constantly on the defence,” Harry says matter of factly, holding the door for Eggsy.

Blushing, he says, “You might wanna work on the wording of that.” Harry’s reply slips right from his mind, because the oh-so-cosy little restaurant Eggsy was expecting to step into turns out to be a grand room with plenty of golden chandeliers and velvet curtains draped down the walls.

He muses this is indeed the strangest sequence of events that have ever come out of a work day as they get a table and Harry pulls out his chair like the living, breathing example of chivalry he seems to be. He straightens his shoulders and tries not to feel utterly out of place among a crowd of suited men and women dressed in gowns his mum can only dream of. To Harry, he says, “For someone who used ta take his clothes off for a livin’, you’re awfully prim.

The remark draws an amused, twitchy smile out of Harry Hart and Eggsy grins in response. They get two menus, a basket of bread, and a suspicious look from the waiter as he pours them both a glass of wine. Harry, seemingly sophisticated in all the finer areas of life, swirls the wine in his glass, takes a sniff and a sip. Eggsy wonders what sort of charade he’s agreed to, him and the waiter both waiting for a curt nod of approval. As soon as he gets it, the waiter swoops away. Once he is out of earshot, Harry sets his wine down and murmurs ‘I bet you don’t wave your cock around on the street outside of working hours either’ under his breath with Eggsy nearly choking on his wine.

He spits a mouthful right back into the glass, sputtering. “Jesus fuck,” he gasps, half coughing and half laughing, fully aware he’s making a right fool out of himself. “Alright, I’ll take that comment ‘bout you bein’ prim back.”

“I suppose I am less vulgar now than I was in my youth.”

Eggsy tries and fails to wipe some of the wine from the table cloth as he’s being glared at by a woman at the next table. “How so?”

“Well, for one, I have yet to call my superior a ‘narcissistic little bitch deserving manual castration’, despite having thought that.”

“You said that to Arthur?” Eggsy asks, wide-eyed like he’s in the presence of a legend.

“Heavens no,” Harry looks mortally offended at the mere insinuation. “I said that to Merlin at rehearsals once. He punched me in the face.”

“Shit. I knew he was vile, but-”

“Oh, no. It was better that way. Cleared the bad blood right out of our systems.” Harry sips on his wine and says, “It’s better to resolve conflict on the spot. We’ve broken each other’s noses in turn, but at the end of the day, it’s all in good sport. I suspect he’s gotten a bit softer with age, looking after young things like you and the current Lancelot.”

Eggsy snorts. “Merlin, nice? He’s the bald, Scottish version of the devil, if you ask me.”

“He can be hellfire and hot fury, always has strived for it anyway, I won’t deny that.” Harry leans in ever so slightly and pushes Eggsy’s wine towards him in encouragement as the obnoxious waiter comes to take their orders. Harry, apparently knowing the menu by heart, orders for the both of them while Eggsy gulps down his wine ungraciously under the snooty look of the waiter. On the surface he’s blushing, mortified at the thought that he must look like the most unsophisticated rent boy in town, but deep down he’s relieved not to have to butcher the name of the dish he wants in front of the judgemental man.

“Thanks,” Eggsy whispers once the waiter is gone.

“What for?”

“Not being bothered that I’m so,” he gestures at himself, “rough around the edges, I s’pose.”

“I rather fancy that is the interesting bit,” Harry says conspiratorially and leans back in his chair, one hand tapping on the tablecloth.

“Guess it’s true what they say then.”

“And what, pray tell, might that be?”

“Well, I’ve heard posh boys like a bit o’ rough.”

“And what is said about the reversed situation?”

“Nothin’ I know of.” Eggsy fidgets with his wine speckled napkin and says, “I’d say, based on me own observations, there’s a charm to the whole suit-and-tie thing.”

“Is that so?” Harry asks with a twinkle in his eye, though he remains as indifferent as humanly possible on the surface.

“I’ll say it just this once, Harry Hart,” Eggsy says in a stern voice and leans over the table, “You’re as fucking hot as it gets.”

Behind him, the waiter clears his throat loudly, and Eggsy turns around to look at the man balancing two large plates. On the other side of the table Harry sports an amused smirk as the waiter sets their plates down with a curt ‘bon apetit’. Eggsy stabs his pasta with his fork, trying to ignore the heat that’s creeping up his neck.

“Oh gosh, ya coulda warned me,” he says morosely.

“Nothing to be embarrassed about,” Harry says cheerfully and Eggsy gets the urge to throw a glass of water in his face. He shoots Harry a dark look that loses all of its edge as soon as he gets mouthful of the the pomodoro drenched penne he’s taken his aggression out on. Momentarily he forgets even his very few manners and moans at the divine taste of the dish.

This time Harry is the one who looks uncomfortable. “I’ll take that as a sign of approval of my order.”

“I’d blow someone for this,” Eggsy blurts and turns red immediately when Harry tries not to suffocate on his risotto. “Sorry. Bit out of line.”

“You could say that,” Harry grumbles and washes his food down with the rest of his wine, voice cracking on the few short words. He pours both Eggsy and himself some more, watching him eat from the corner of his eye. “I’m glad you are at least enjoying yourself.”

“Trumps fried mac and scrambled egg past midnight any day,”Eggsy says, smile spreading over his face at Harry’s offended look. “‘S not that bad when ya spice it up with some salsa.”

“God, you’re a culinary disaster.”

“Educate me then,” Eggsy says and this time he’s the one with the twinkle in his eye. He licks his lips and drinks half his wine with his eyes locked onto Harry’s. Beneath the table, he nervously shifts his feet and they bump awkwardly against Harry’s, who in turns shifts his gaze away from Eggsy’s.

They eat in companionable quietude, Eggsy wolfing down a long overdue dinner like a rabid dog. Harry doesn’t say a word to him about it, though Eggsy does sense the mildly disapproving glances cast his way every time the older man stops to take a sip of wine. In the end, Eggsy is left waiting and watching Harry display his calculated mannerisms as though he’s acting out a manual on how to be a well-versed gentleman, while Eggsy polishes off the rest of their two opened wine bottles.

“Do you still want dessert?” Harry asks once he’s done. He glances at his wristwatch and says,  “It is nearing midnight, but I suppose you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.”

“Are ya kiddin’? Merlin wants us on the doorstep fresh faced by twelve, the bloody bastard. Besides, I’ve had the majority of the wine and it’s not sitting too well.” Eggsy pushes his cutlery into a position mirroring Harry’s. “Ya know, he woulda made a great slave master back in the day. ”

Harry chuckles, a soft, rolling sound that vibrates somewhere in the depths of his chest. “I think I’ll get the check, so he doesn’t make you suffer too much tomorrow, ” he says and Eggsy nods numbly.

His cheeks are flushed red from dehydration and the alcohol coursing through his veins, so Eggsy excuses himself to the lavatory, passing their waiter on the way. The men’s room is slotted behind a corner in the seclusion of loosely draped curtains hanging from the roof. Compared to the dim golden lighting in the restaurant, the fluorescent lamps in the bathroom are glaringly bright, but the tiles radiate the kind of cool Eggsy hoped for.

In the mirror, he glows in a blotchy red with his lower lip stained from all the wine he’s had in the short course of an hour. He splashes his face with some water and looks at himself again, face glimmering damp and Eggsy realises just how out of place he must look in the restaurant, laughing carelessly at Harry Hart. Staring at himself, he wonders what on earth he’s doing there in the first place.

Absorbed in his own thoughts, he doesn’t notice the bathroom door opening, though he registers the sound of footsteps and he looks up to see Harry Hart with quiet curiosity in his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

When Eggsy doesn’t say anything more, Harry comes to stand next to him to wash his hands and says, “For a moment I wondered whether you’d made an escape through the window.”

Eggsy casts a glance at the tiny slot of a window at the far end and snorts, “What? Squeeze through that thing?”

“I’ve practised my fair share of ridiculous escapes to get out of a date.”

“I wasn’t about to ditch you,” Eggsy says, half amused and half offended. He takes to staring at Harry’s watch peaking out from under his cuffs. It’s an old  Kingsman issue watch, well worn like a beloved family heirloom, a reminder of a common past.

“Ready?” Harry asks and somehow manages to catch him off guard again.

Eggsy nods and they dip through the restaurant into the alley with Harry two steps behind him in the darkness. The streets are damp from a rain shower and glossy under the aureate beams of the street lanterns. Their breaths mist in the cool of the night and Eggsy looks up at his own white exhale rising into the sky.

He catches Harry watching him, but doesn’t speak. Instead, Harry asks where he lives and Eggsy points down the road they’re on with a quip of ‘five blocks in that direction’. “Ya know, I still can’t believe it,” he says, “I simply can’t imagine you on the Kingsman stage, no matter how hard I try. I mean look at you. You’re the definition of a posh toff.”

Harry cocks and eyebrow, “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Eggsy rolls his eyes and decides to ignore him. “Must’ve been a bit of a different sorta profession a couple o’ decades ago. I mean-” He bites his lip and asks the one question he’s thought about ever since they left the bar. “How old exactly are ya?”

“Easily old enough to be your father. More than twice your age, if that is something that bothers you.”

“Well, I don’t know. It’s not a huge deal, but not normal either, you know?” Eggsy trails off and chews on his lower lip in thought.

“Eggsy,” Harry says in an affectionately patronising voice, “I have lived a life longer than I think you can realistically imagine: carelessly fucked my fair share, broken some hearts, and worked some pretty dirty jobs from time to time. Somewhere along the way I picked up some manners, but I’ve also learned there’s no point in denying yourself the simple pleasures in life for some ridiculous societal standard. However, if you wish me to stop pursuing you, I will respect that.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Eggsy mumbles and falls silent, because he doesn’t really know what he wants from Harry in the first place. “It’s too late to think about these kind of things anyway. Besides, I’m a wee bit drunk.”

“I could leave you my phone number,” Harry offers. “Let you take your time. Sober.”

Eggsy agrees and hands over his  mobile on the steps of his apartment complex. The world spins in his eyes as he waits and Eggsy makes a mental note to drink a glass of water at home, or Merlin will bust his balls for being hungover. Harry Hart hands him his phone back, they’re fingers brushing, and Eggsy doesn’t want to let go in that moment. He grabs onto Harry’s arm with his other hand and entertains the thought of kissing him senseless.

“Eggsy-”

Harry’s voice is enough to sober him up momentarily and he whispers, “Thank you, for dinner.” He still leans in for  sloppy peck on the cheek and relishes in the moment Harry’s face comes into focus when they pull apart.

“My pleasure,” Harry says in a hoarse voice and adds a warm farewell.

Eggsy hops up the steps with the automatic lights flickering on. He thumbs in the door code, his pocket knife and phone knocking together in the confines of his pockets as he shoves the door open with his shoulder. From inside he sees his own reflection in the windows and Harry Hart’s compact silhouette blending in with the pavement somewhere down the street. It brings to his mind the kind of old-fashioned spies in black and white movies. Eggsy doesn’t think on it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are highly appreciated. Thank you to everyone, who left them on last chapter. Feel free to come chat me up on tumblr by the same username :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to get myself tangled up in a web of tenses. Please let me know if I mucked 'em up somewhere despite my best efforts not to.

The clock on the neighbourhood church strikes twelve o’clock as Eggsy runs through a downpour in the grubby street behind Kingsman. He thumbs in the code for the back door that leads straight into the dressing rooms and tries to save whatever few patches of him aren’t soaked through yet. He collapses against the back of the door, panting, and thinks no one should have to outrun a storm hungover.

“Well, you look like shit,” Roxy says, sparing him a quick glance from behind her locker door.

Rolling his eyes, Eggsy reaches for a towel from a pile of clean laundry they keep lying around unfolded on a stool. The whole back room is cluttered police uniforms and firemen’s clothing, all with sewn in velcro strips at the seams. “In case ya haven’t noticed,” he says pointedly as he gives his hair a swift rub down, “I got caught in the rain. ’S bloody pissin’ out there.”

“Good thing you get out of your clothes for a living then, isn’t it?” She stuffs her bag and her clothes into her locker and cheerfully quips, “Anyway, I’m glad you’re not dead in a ditch. Merlin would flay me if he’d have to look for a replacement.”

“I’m not even on duty tonight, but thanks for the vote of confidence. Besides, I didn’t get shagged last night, let alone murdered. I went on a date so prim even my grandma would’ve been telling me to get on with it.”

“Hang on. Are you telling me a man who’s probably got a four bedroom flat tucked away on Victoria road took a stripper half his age out for a _candlelight dinner_?” She levels him with her most disbelieving stare and Eggsy half wishes it wasn’t a lie.

“‘S what happened. I swear on JB’s life.” He throws his hands up in surrender because when has reality ever been this ridiculous before. He supposes he might as well admit everything while he’s at it. “He gave me a bloody peck on the cheek and his phone number.”

Roxy cackles in delight and offers him false apologies for it, each attempt interrupted by a new burst of laughter. “Just your luck to charm a modern day Darcy. Christ, he’s probably the kind who folds his underwear and goes to bed at ten on the dot.”

Eggsy snorts and tries to look annoyed, though Roxy has a point. Harry Hart seems like the type to take on emotional affairs at an excruciatingly slow pace and Eggsy isn’t sure if he can cope with that. He’s used to impromptu quickies behind a nightclub, not dinner dates and grammatically correct text messages. He pays his rent in cash and likes to sit at the pub over a pint with his mates and somehow he can neither picture Harry Hart in his life nor himself in Harry’s. That doesn’t stop Harry Hart from being inherently intriguing with his questionable past and peculiar manner. “You know, I’m not even that bothered. Was well on me way to gettin’ hammered.”

“Oh, Shit,” Roxy mutters with a sudden revelation, “we’re late again.”

“Great. Merlin’s gonna work us extra for this.” Eggsy shoves his belongings into the bottom of his locker and tugs a t-shirt over his head.

 

* * *

 

He works the floor on Saturdays, parading back and forth between the bar and the tables in nothing more than a server’s apron and a collar bow tie around his neck while Gaheris does his best police officer impression. It’s one of the quieter nights, a group of young women crowding the right end of the club while the front seats are filled by scattered usuals. Merlin sets a drink on fire and Eggsy picks up  some empty shot glasses and his tip from an empty table.

“Oi, waiter,” a half drunken man calls from the front and Eggsy wonders how many more drinks Merlin’s going to milk him for before kicking him out. He takes his order and a crumpled ten pound note, the man’s eyes darting between Gaheris on stage and Eggsy’s oiled chest that gleams under the spotlights.

He retreats to the bar, barking half a dozen orders at Merlin over the thud of the music. The bar is full tonight, not nearly as crowded as on Fridays, but they aren’t at peak time yet either. There’s eight more single sets to go and a group performance they should honest to god write a review about in the papers for its artistic worth. Eggsy looks around, racking up a count for the night’s tips in his mind.

From his spot beside the entrance he can hear the bouncer exchange murmured words with someone at the top of the stairs before the sound of descending footsteps echoes in the stairwell. Eggsy can tell its one of those rich men who keep their oxfords perfectly polished just by the gait. Someone who is alone and not in a hurry, thus unmarried and not trying to sneak a glimpse at a a pair of tits before heading home to his doting wife and two point five kids.

“Eggsy, are you ever gonna get these drinks out?” Merlin asks, snapping him out of his thoughts.

“Yeah, ‘course. Sorry.” He flashes Merlin an apologetic grin and shuffles the row of drinks onto his tray. Trying not to spill any tequila, he makes a point of going over to the women’s table first. They are caught up in their conversation, though he’s more concerned with the fact that the tipsy man in the front is ogling his arse shamelessly. Eggsy makes a point of putting on a show, because working the floor is just as much an opportunity to make some money as dancing on stage.

He turns with a smirk on his face and five pairs of eyes on his behind only for his mind to draw a blank when he sees Harry Hart behind the bar. Eggsy swallows and gives the ogler his drink with a dry ‘here you go sir’ and his worst attempt at a smile possible.

From the stage Roxy mouths ‘what the heck’ at him from the stage with sultry eyes and no clothes and in another situation Eggsy might find it funny. He shrugs helplessly and heads back to the bar with a blush spreading slowly over his chest and face, because he’s virtually naked  for the second time in twenty-four hours in front of a man who barely dared to kiss him on the cheek the night before.

“I need a sparlin’ cosmo and two vodka martinis, please,” Eggsy says in his firmest voice and Merlin looks at him in surprise. Harry spares him a quick glance and a nod.

“Table 6?” Merlin asks already pulling the appropriate bottles off the wall.

“Yeah.”

“Good. Don’t serve the chap in the front or he’ll pass out and I’m not wrecking my back to get him out in the street nor am I cleaning his puke off the loo floor.”

“Got it.”

Eggsy stands by the counter, hoping it’s dark enough for Harry not to see he’s blushing like a thirteen-year-old with a crush. Though he supposes he’s just that compared to Harry Hart in his suits and nineteenth century social skills. With forced conversationality Eggsy says, “Planning to stop by here more often?”

“I merely had some business to discuss with Merlin.”

“Oh what, don’t tell me he invests in the stock market.”

Harry quirks a half smile as Merlin’s mouth forms into a thin line and Eggsy has to remind himself not to piss off his supervisor. Arthur may be the boss, but Merlin is the one splitting the tips. Harry is about to say something when a mixed group of students in their twenties bustle through the doorway, faces glowing from laughter and alcohol and Harry casts his eyes down.

Eggsy presses his tray against his chest as he’s surrounded by the group ordering a flurry of drinks. He takes his own order as soon as Merlin puts the glasses on the counter. Eggsy mumbles a barely audible goodbye to Harry Hart. Walking away, he thinks he’s never felt as self conscious about being butt naked ever in his life.

 

* * *

 

Walking JB later that night, Eggsy thinks of Harry behind the bar whispering with Merlin, faces concerned yet neither of them had seemed particularly upset when he showed up at the counter to interrupt them. Even though he’d turned the situation into a joke at the time, it left him with a strange feeling whenever he thinks of Harry’s eyes looking almost black with a lit wall behind him and shadows all around.

The mystery surrounding Harry Hart is simultaneously what draws him closer and makes him wary. It’s something new, but also harbours the possibility of getting seriously burned. After all, one  night of gentlemanly behaviour was by no means an indicator of a person’s entire complex being, especially if he takes into account Harry’s past at Kingsman.

Perhaps, Eggsy thinks, demystifying Harry Hart would be the best course of action. It would be like sticking his hand under the bed as a kid when he thought there were monsters in the dark. Being a little reckless and a hands on had gotten him into this situation in the first place and it might just be his way out of it too.

Standing under a streetlamp Eggsy digs out his phone and glances down both ends of the street. He selects Harry’s number and tells himself he’s got nothing to lose. JB grunts at him to keep walking as Eggsy waits for an answer. To his disappointment the call rings out, and Harry Hart turns out to be the kind of old-fashioned person with an answering machine still in place.  Eggsy tries to come up with something to say while Harry’s calm voice delivers its little speech before the beep.

Fumbling with his words, Eggsy mutters, “Uh, hi. It’s me. Look, I reckoned… I got tomorrow off, if ya wanna go for coffee or somethin’. Gimme a ring, will ya.”

He hangs up with his heart pounding in his throat, hating himself for being so out of sorts over nothing at all. JB whines impatiently and pulls at his leash, urging Eggsy on. “Alright, we’re goin’. We’re goin’.”

They walk three more blocks with JB’s tiny paws pattering on the wet concrete and his snorts accentuating the quiet of the night. Normally Eggsy would be delighted in the calm of a late night walk, but walking along the street leading to his house he thinks of Harry Hart staring at him with their breaths steaming in the cold air. Eggsy’s phone vibrates in his pocket as they reach the steps to his building and he reaches for it with numb fingers.

_Am in Amsterdam taking care of urgent business. Sorry. HH_

Eggsy mindlessly lets himself into the building and reads the message over again. ‘Who the bloody hell has business on a Sunday?’ he mutters to himself. It’s such an openly terrible excuse that he can’t even fathom typing out a well meaning response. He kicks off his shoes and sighs, the weight of the day finally settling on his shoulders.

Defeated, he forgoes late night leftover pizza for a shower. JB stares at him as he tosses the phone onto his bed with a huff and gets undressed with his head a thousand miles away.

Noticing JB’s squinted stare Eggsy sighs. “I’m bein’ silly, aren’t I?” he asks his dog and helps the pug onto his bed. “Ya know what? We’ll just have a good ol’ lie in tomorrow and not think ‘bout it.”

In the bed, a new message pops up on Eggsy’s phone while he’s in the shower and JB raises his head sleepily at the sound. By the time Eggsy crawls under the covers with sleep already pawing at his consciousness JB is out cold again and the phone remains lost in the folds of the blanket.

_I could do Thursday. HH_

_Eggsy? HH_


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No offence to the Thames. I rather quite like, actually.

Eggsy stares over the Thames, hands buried in his pockets with JB’s leash wrapped around his palm. It’s getting cold with winter on the verge of breaking out over the city and his breath puffs out in the air as little clouds. He sniffles and tries to will himself to feel warmer even though he can’t feel his toes anymore.

It’s that time of the afternoon when the park is near abandoned with lone women pushing strollers along the paved lanes or the occasional retiree passing along at their involuntarily languid pace. Among them, Harry Hart materializes as put together as ever. Eggsy feels a little flutter of surprise because he’s managed to forget just what a sight Harry is, especially with his cheeks stained red in the freezing wind and Eggsy realises he’s never actually seen him in broad daylight.

“Hi,” Eggsy says, holding back JB from jumping all over him.

“Hello. I didn’t know you have a dog,” Harry says and bends down to let JB get a good whiff of him. “Aren’t we eager?”

“Hope ya don’t mind me bringin’ JB with. I’ve got work work later and I reckoned we’d be out anyway.”

Harry smiles at JB rather than him. “Not an issue at all. I used to have a dog too, actually. These days I travel a lot for work, so I am afraid it’s only me now.”

“Right, how was Amsterdam?”

“Same old really,” Harry says dismissively and Eggsy thinks back to the strange look Merlin shot him when he interrupted their conversation regarding _business_ the previous week. Harry gets back on his feet and motions down the riverside. “Shall we?”

Eggsy nods and they walk along the water with JB trotting happily ahead of them. He doesn’t quite know what to say, so he looks over the slowly flowing water and listens to JB’s incessant grunting.

“I’ve always been fond of the waterfront," Harry says all of a sudden, “though the Thames is rather ugly as far as they go, if you ask me.”

“Very patriotic.”

“There certainly are great things about Britain and this river is simply not one of them,” Harry deadpans.

“Honest, I feel the same, but ya can’t say that out loud. Even that gran over there would beat ya up, if she knew.”

Harry glances at the old lady ahead and bites his lip in an attempt to hide his amusement. “You’re delightfully ridiculous, you know that?”

“Rox just calls me idiotic most of the time, but thanks.”

Eggsy beams at Harry and receives a tame smirk in return, the nervous tension within him unraveling in a matter of seconds and gives him the incentive to ask what he’s been most curious about since the first night. “D’ya mind me askin’ ‘bout your time as a stripper? I’m havin’ a bit of a hard time seein’ someone like you with their arse out for a few extra quid.”

“There’s no big mystery to it really,” Harry says, but indulges him in a proper tale anyway.

“For one, I got into it _before_ Merlin and even though he likes to think of himself as the equivalent of a god these days, both of us were once novices. You’ll know Kingsman has a long standing tradition, starting back in 1919 with a wealthy tailor who started running a brothel as a side business to keep track of all the major national and international political events. He realised quickly that most of his employees had far better uses and the corporation has since branched out, but the exotic dancing still has a firm footing in the business, as you are no doubt aware. And that’s where I got started too.

“I actually used to study at Oxford for a bit, but by my second year I failed a few too many classes and ended up in a fist fight with a classmate and that was that then. That lot isn’t too indulgent about such matters and, needless to say, I got kicked out. Being on a scholarship, I had nowhere else to and nothing to show for at nineteen, and I certainly wasn’t about to go back home. Reckless - and who isn’t at that age - I thought I’d just make my way in London bouncing from one awful job to the next, until I make it. Surprisingly enough being a stripper was down the better end of the spectrum, when the option is scrubbing loos at Victoria Station.”

“I get the picture,” Eggsy says with a face twisted in disgust, because he’s seen people retch into a bowl others can’t even aim at while taking a leak.

Harry looks at him with earnest honesty in his eyes and says, “I didn’t realise it at first, but Kingsman is far more than a job to keep your life up and running until you figure out something else. It’s an opportunity to redeem all your wasted potential. I have never associated humility and self-respect more closely in my life than I did while having to physically work for every penny of my rent.”

Eggsy is surprised to recognize himself in those words and confesses, “Ya know, I thought ya were the sort born with a silver spoon shoved up your arse with those suits n’ manners n’ all.”

To his surprise harry doesn’t look the least bit offended. “Those are signs of a gentleman, not an aristocrat, Eggsy. The difference lies in the fact that no one is born a gentleman; it is a learned trait. As the saying goes: Manners maketh man.” He punctuates each word with a pointed silence and looks Eggsy in the eyes.

“Well, Merlin’s certainly neglected that lesson,” Eggsy mumbles and Harry laughs.

“I’d argue he is insistent on capitalising on your rugged authenticity. It’s a trick as good as any other.”

“That doesn’t explain the filth that comes spewing out of his mouth.”

“No, indeed, but I’ve always rather thought it suits him, don’t you think?”

It’s Eggsy’s turn to laugh, or rather scoff, and he rolls his eyes as he says, “Right, calling me a pussyfooter for not wanting to break my neck doing a split upside down on the pole is definitely the sort of thing I want to hear from him on a Thursday night.”

“At least you can’t accuse him of having a ‘silver spoon up his arse’.” Harry’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly at the phrase and a flush of embarrassment creeps up Eggsy’s neck.

“Again, sorry ‘bout that.”

“You’ve nothing to apologise for, Eggsy. Twenty years ago I would have probably picked a fight with someone like myself. I’m lucky enough for you to have been more gracious in accepting my company, despite your prejudice.”

“Are ya kiddin’ me? You, the lucky one outta the two of us?”

Harry ignores the outright disbelief in his tone. “And why not, may I ask?”

Eggsy scrambles for an answer, coming up short with his mouth hanging open uselessly until he snaps it shut and frowns. And why not, indeed? Harry’s been the one to ask him out, after all, and the fact that Eggsy’s wanted to shag him since laying eyes on him is besides the point. If he cuts right to the core of his interest in Harry Hart, all Eggsy wants to do is make him come undone, to unravel the pretty façade and if he thinks about he’s not too far off. He may not have gotten a peek at the body hidden beneath a tailored suit, but Harry has offered him a glimpse at a past no one suspect of him and that has to count for something. Obviously the man is laying out all his cards on the table and thus handing Eggsy all the power without an ounce of hesitation. And the ridiculously chivalrous gestures, Eggsy realises, are not a sign of disinterest on Harry’s part, but rather an affirmation of his fondness.

The revelation unfurls the frown on Eggsy’s face and his mouth forms a silent ‘oh’ that doesn’t go unnoticed by Harry Hart. He turns his head to look at Eggsy’s baffled profile and says, “For all his eccentric egoism, Merlin does now when he’s struck upon a diamond in the rough, pardon the metaphor. You’re a quite noteworthy person Eggsy, and perhaps it’s time you _took note of yourself._ ”

Eggsy thinks it must be one of the best compliments he’s ever received and glances at Harry with silent gratefulness and he’s certain Harry gets the jist of it. “You’ve a handbook for inspirational lines tucked away in that coat of yours, don’t ya,” Eggsy jokes, and JB’s tugging impatiently at the leash again.

“I’m gravely insulted,” Harry retorts, feigning offense.

“Don’t even try that,” Eggsy says.

They drop the matter, though Eggsy’s still smiling when Harry asks him about his week. “Lots and lots of hen nights. Far too much screaming, but the tip’s all worth it,” Eggsy starts off, gesturing vaguely with his free hand as he recounts Monday’s hellish service on the floor. It’s strange to dissect his daily life at the club for someone like Harry Hart, even if he knows the trade by heart.

He doesn’t notice the way Harry’s gaze follows the flailing of his frozen digits, until he’s done talking and ends his account of the week with a dumbfounded, “What?”

“Your hands look rather cold,” Harry says and Eggsy looks down at said hands to find they’ve gone ruddy and stiff from the cold.

He’d somehow managed to forget the cold entirely and says: “Yeah, I didn’t realise it’d be this freezing out yet.”

Harry tugs at his own gloves and holds them out to Eggsy. “Here.”

“Harry, no,”  Eggsy says even though his skin itches with tightness. “‘S not necessary,”

“At least take the one for the leash,” Harry insists with the glove dangling limply between them and Eggsy glances at his own, frozen, and leather chafed hand.

“Alright,” he concedes, taking Harry’s glove. It’s still warm on the inside, like a fleeting touch when he slips it on and JB’s growing impatient again.

Harry smiles at him, just barely, and another gust of wind rushes past them, tousling his carefully arranged hair. He holds out his bare hand like an offering and Eggsy doesn’t hesitate in taking it. “What would you say to a cup of tea?” Harry asks, pulling Eggsy’s hand into the warmth of his coat pocket so their shoulders bump.

“Yes, please,” Eggsy half groans and half laughs, glancing down to where their hands are linked together.

 

* * *

 

They find a minuscule café under a massive oak tree and Eggsy nestles himself into the chair below a radiator while JB makes a round below the table before settling down by his legs.

“What would you like?”

“I’ll have a cuppa and maybe somethin’ sweet, whatever they have,” Eggsy says and Harry steals off to the counter with a ‘be back in a bit’ tossed his way along with his remaining glove.

Eggsy catches the glove reflexively and thinks it’s an idiotic ploy to keep him warm, but slips it on anyway. He watches Harry, pointing at a pastry and chatting with the lady at the till, and Eggsy continues to be surprised by the fact that their lives would have intersected at any point. Logically speaking they’re miles apart in every aspect of life and yet Harry is magnetising even with his mild tempered demeanor that’s so at odds with his own. Eggsy has never been one to believe in that ‘opposites attract’ shite, though he’s beginning to wonder.

Then again, Harry’s roots seem to run not too far from his own and perhaps he’s simply a more evolved version of Eggsy. He turns to look at his own hands in another man’s gloves that fit him like his own and thinks that maybe they’re not all that far apart after all.

Beside him, Harry smirks and says, “You seem rather inclined to getting lost in your own thoughts.”

“Hmm? Yeah.” Eggsy mutters absentmindedly and shakes his head. “Must be the cold.”

“The lady was friendly enough to lend you a blanket,” Harry says and Eggsy takes note of the red fabric slung over Harry’s right arm. He sets down a tea for each of them, a sandwich for himself and a scone for Eggsy, before holding out the blanket for Eggsy’s taking.

Eggsy frowns, but reaches for it anyway. “Ya know this is gonna totally wreck my street cred.”

“I rather suspect you’ll survive.” Harry unwraps his sandwich from a film of cling foil and fishes a slice of ham out of it to toss to JB.

“Oi! Don’t let ‘im get a taste for the finer things in life. Rox once fed her poodle pulled pork and it’s been a downhill slope ever since.”

JB grunts repeatedly under the table in satisfaction as he wolfs down the rare treat with two pairs of eyes on him. When he’s done, the dog look up at Harry with his little pug teeth poking out between his lips and it’s close to the worst smile Eggsy’s ever seen on his dog. Harry mutters ‘what a beauty’ under his breath and Eggsy represses a snicker for the sake of the dog, though JB picks up on it anyway with his eyes flickering between the two men above him.

“Great, look what ya gone and done!”

“I take no responsibility for that.” Harry puts his hands up as a sign of innocence and Eggsy merely rolls his eyes with the hint of a smirk curling at his lips.

They fall into a comfortable silence with Harry eating away at his lunch and Eggsy picking apart his scone. At the table next to them, a little girl makes faces at JB whilst her brother tosses crumbs at the nearby pigeons. A flock of teenagers passes them, giving them strange looks and Eggsy supposes they do rather stand out of the serene portrait picture: Eggsy with a blanket half draped across his feet, clashing with his track suit jacket, and him as an entity contrasted with Harry Hart, who looks like he’s been plucked straight out of a Savile Row tailor’s window display.

“Reckon they’re skipping class?” Harry asks, following Eggsy’s gaze.

“Absolutely,” Eggsy says and sips at his tea, “I mean it’s - what? Three thirty?”

Harry glances at his watch. “Four fifteen actually.”

“Already? Shit-” Eggsy blurts and adds a ‘sorry’ as an afterthought to Harry’s raised eyebrow. “Uh, Gareth has come down with the most god awful case of the flu and I’m supposed to cover his set and have Kay cover for me on the floor. Still gotta figure out the details and make a food run before my shift. I-”

“Right, we’ll get simply you a cab and-”

“No, no really, it’s fine. I’ll take the tube home, just gotta hurry.” Eggsy chugs down the remainder of his tea and struggles to untie JB from the chair leg. “I’m so sorry ‘bout this. Completely slipped my mind.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Already on his feet with the blanket crumpled in his chair, Eggsy stops in his tracks to ask, “What do I owe you for tea?”

“Nothing.”

“No, seriously-”

“Eggsy, don’t worry. It’s on me.”

Harry wears that expression that doesn’t warrant arguing and Eggsy’s torn for a moment. He concludes it isn’t worth the fuss and declares: “Harry Hart, you’re a real life saint.”

He hesitates for a moment, fidgeting with JB’s leash before Eggsy decides to make a move, because - hell - he’s a play a part in this too. Acting on an impulse, he leans down to give Harry a brief kiss on the lips. The other seems flustered for a moment before he clutches at Eggsy’s collar to keep him in place for a moment longer.

“Right,” Eggsy mutters, when they come apart with a blush rising into his cheeks and he’s sure of all of London is watching them. “Right, gotta go. I’ve got Sunday off, your turn to call me.”

Harry nods, clearing his throat, and Eggsy finally gets a hold of himself. He waves a last time from the riverbank before dashing into a sprint and doesn’t notice he’s still got Harry’s gloves tucked into his jacket pockets until he’s digging for his Oyster card at the station.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got something less fluffy in mind for a bit further down the road. My brain just seems intent on slow burn, no matter what. Please bear with me. Thanks to all the lovely people leaving comments and kudos; it means the world to me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know this is a stripper AU and I'm getting back to the club the chapter after next. Promise.
> 
> For this one it might be worth knowing Dean Baker names how henchmen after dogs. Thanks to IMBD for not being completely useless shite.

Eggsy adjusts his snapback for the sixth time in four minutes and fishes his Kingsman medal to rest atop his jumper, only to shove it back under. JB lies at his feet, seemingly having realised they aren’t about to go for a walk. No, Eggsy’s headed out with Harry again and even though objectively he knows he looks good, he can’t quite shake the nervous tangle in his stomach.

He isn’t supposed to be this concerned about how he looks; it’s certainly never bothered him much before. Sure, he puts as much effort into his appearance as any bloke his age, but this is something different. It must be Harry, Eggsy muses and pulls out the medal again.

“Shit,” he mutters at his own mirror image. He turns to JB, who looks up at him curiously. “I’m done for, bruv, ain’t I?”

And really he should have seen this coming. One didn’t agree to multiple dates with people, unless one actually intended to date them, though Eggsy’s starting to second guess that idea. He’s just been having fun with the poshest bloke he’s ever met in his life, who says it has to be moe? It isn’t as though he’s seriously thought about Harry Hart. Perhaps he should, Eggsy thinks and shrugs on his coat. He snatches Harry’s gloves from the hat shelf and sends Roxy a text.

_Think you might’ve been right, after all. -E_

 

* * *

  

This time they’re in his territory: a cosy little pub with a bloke screaming at the telly and loads of people laughing with their cheeks glowing in the dim lighting. It’s not his regular place, though him, Jamal, and Ryan have ventured out of his old neighbourhood enough to distinguish the shitholes from the decent pubs and Eggsy’s not about to give Harry Hart anything less than the best he has to offer.

“I haven’t been in a proper pub for ages,” Harry says, holding the door for Eggsy, “not since Merlin broke up with his girlfriend anyway.”

“Merlin’s had a proper girlfriend?”

Harry sighs. “I’ll have to kill you, if you breathe a word of this, but one time I found him under a table at our regular pub: completely out of his mind. He seemed to be rather distraught about the fact that there were sunflowers on his crisp packet, or something of the sort. It was hard to make out from his garbled wailing, really.”

“No!” Eggsy stares at him wide eyed, not sure whether he ought to laugh or not. “When’s that been? The eighties?”

“More like eight years ago. He hasn’t set foot out of his house to drink ever since.”

“Can’t really blame ‘im. Roxy swears she’ll cut out the booze on the regular, and then - just yesterday as a matter of fact - she gets proper smashed.”

“Oh, were you in on that too?” Harry’s tone is innocently curious, but Eggsy suspects he’s already been found out the first moment Harry laid eyes on him tonight.

“Let’s just say I’ve had better days.”

Eggsy waves his hand vaguely and gets in line behind a group of kids, who look like they’re barely old enough to drink. “So, what d’ya wanna eat?”

Harry shrugs and squints at the menu. It’s a barely legible mess of chalk scribble even under the bright spotlights. “Anything you recommend?” he asks, giving up on the menu to pat down his pockets for his wallet.

“I do, actually. And you can cut that right out, because this one’s on me.”

“Eggsy-”

“Don’t even try. Just tell me what ya wanna drink and I’ll sort out the food.”

Harry looks torn for a moment, then sighs and says, “A pint of Guinness would be lovely, thank you. I’ll get us a table.”

Eggsy nods and waits for Harry to turn around before he gets his own wallet and looks at the crumpled notes Merlin’s handed out from the till at the end of the previous night. Christ, Eggsy thinks to himself, he’s taking Harry out on money he’s made on the pole. The thought reminds him of Roxy’s face tinted purple under strobe lights, giggling uncontrollably as she whispered, “I paid that guy with money that’s been down my thong.”

“Oi, you gonna order or what?” someone barks behind him and Eggsy rushes forward to shout his order over the bar. He spots Harry on the far left, sitting in a booth with his hands clasped together on the table and he looks more than a little out of place in a way that has Eggsy smile with fondness.

He’d told Harry to dress casually, which apparently meant downgrading a three piece suit to a two piece lacking the tie. It might’ve even made the cut for casual, if Harry’s suits weren’t all tailored to scream money like a flashing neon sign. Not to mention the umbrella set against the table. Eggsy carries their drinks to the table, slipping into the other side of the booth.

“So,” he says and licks his lips.

Harry cradles his beer. “So.”

“You still haven’t told me what you do for a living.”

“No, I haven’t.” Harry takes a long sip of his beer and sighs in delight. “Well, as I’ve told you: Kingsman has many career opportunities to offer for a few years of good… service.”

Eggsy wraps his hands around his pint in anticipation and watches Harry’s face intently.

“And I became a tailor.”

He blinks in confusion. “That’s it?”

Harry raises a brow in silent question and Eggsy flushes. “I mean, not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s, um, I imagined something a bit more exciting with you goin’ abroad ‘n’ all that.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, well you’d be surprised about that. I’ve done quite a bit of work for notable people.”

“Like who?”

“My work is confidential.”

“Now that really is a load of horse shit,” Eggsy laughs and leans over the table with a sly grin. “Honestly, who’s afraid of accidentally having someone know a tailor accidentally touched their dick?”

“Excuse me, I am very discrete,” Harry huffs, but smiles anyway. He leans back against the bench and says, “Last year I worked with the Swedish Royal court for a while.”

“The one with the princess that disappeared?”

“Princess Tilde, yes. Though, as you might remember, she was returned intact after that odd SIM card mess.”

“Right, that. You reckon anyone ever figured that one out. It kinda fizzled from the news.”

Harry shrugs. “Not a clue, but I think that waitress over there is headed over here.”

Eggsy glances over his shoulder and sits upright as the girl approaches them. “Crab cakes with chips and onion rings?” she asks with a frown and Eggsy nods. She bites her lip, balancing the tray as she sets their meal down one thing at a time and Eggsy notices Harry watching her as though he can read her life from every little move. Maybe that is what he like to do for fun: read people when he measures them in the dressing room. Eggsy wonders if Harry’s ever looked at him like that.

“Good appetite,” the waitress says with what Eggsy assumes to be a genuine smile.

“Ta.”

Harry returns his attention to Eggsy with a faint smile and eyes the food. “Crab cakes?”

“They’re phenomenal here, even if the beer is a bit shite.”

Harry laughs for the first time that night, sudden and bubbling with warmth. “Oh god, I thought you were never going to mention it.”

“Nah, bruv, this is obviously the place to come for a night out on a Sunday, when ya can’t be gettin’ pissed when you’ve work the next day.”

“Do you come here often then?”

“Not these days no. I’ve got two mates I go to pubs with and they live ages away from me, so we don’t get together often anymore.”

“Not Roxy then?” Harry serves them each two crab cakes, pushing his own beer aside.

“Bruv, that girl is a whole ‘nother caliber.”

Luckily for Eggsy, Harry decides not to ask about it, because all the stories of him going out with Roxy end up with him seriously smashed and her laughing like mad on the dancefloor. Eggsy stuffs a handful of chips into his mouth and groans in bliss, eliciting a reluctant smirk from Harry.

“You gonna eat or what?”

Harry swallows and cuts a piece out of a crab cake. “Since we’re discussing our lives-”

“As people do on dates.”

“Yes, indeed. Roxy seems to be a large part of your life and I don’t know a thing about her, apart from her current routine at the club.”

Eggsy gasps, faking being scandalised as he swats Harry’s arm. “You cheeky bastard. That’s my best friend you’re talking about.”

“And see, I don’t even know how you met.”

“That’s hardly a mystery, seeing as we work together,” Eggsy says and Harry returns to his food as he tells the story of the beginning of his and Roxy’s messed up little friendship. “We met at tryouts. She was one of two girls and I apparently wasn’t quite the, er, regular. I’m sure ya know. Anyway, Merlin worked us all relentlessly at any ridiculous hour of the day, weeding out one person after another. I let her crash at my place one time, because it was five am and I took pity on her. Then she invited me out for drinks. We got along real great for a bit, until the end when there was only me and Rox left for the one position. I was kinda more bummed out about falling out with her than maybe not getting the job after weeks of rigorous work.

“And then, out of nowhere, Galahad broke his leg. Merlin was so pissed, because it was peak wedding season, so there were a lot of big parties every night and he needed every single employee. Rox and me both got a ten week trial period till Galahad was due to come back. It was actually really awful, because we were such good friends and it was all gonna end. So, we’re sitting there waiting for Merlin to tell us what’ll happen and the complete shithead tells us Galahad resigned a month ago before handing us each our first paycheck with our code names on them. If I wouldn’t’ve needed the money so bad, I swear I would’ve quit on the spot. Instead me and Rox went out and woke up on the other side of town the next morning, penniless and hungover as fuck.”

Eggsy laughs self consciously, because that story sounds even more irresponsible when he says it out loud than he thought it would. “I mean, it’s idiotic I know. We could’ve gotten killed or somethin’.”

“Honestly, after I woke up soaked through on the French coast next to a butt naked Merlin, nothing surprises me anymore,” Harry says calmly and Eggsy chokes on his food.

“What the actual fuck? I swear you’re making this shit up; Merlin’s not that bonkers.”

“Have you met Merlin. He’s a man-child. I once got him arrested after I dared him to go streaking. Why do you think he’s so cynical? That man has seen it all, mostly through drunk goggles.”

Eggsy laughs at the mere thought of Merlin getting off his high horse, not to mention going absolutely mental. “Oh my god. Why do you tell me these things? How am I supposed to look him in the eye tomorrow?”

Harry shrugs. “I like seeing you laugh. Besides, you’ll have reason to remember me this way.” He smiles warmly and Eggsy’s cheeks burn as he drops his eyes to his food.

He’s digging his own grave here and he can’t bring himself to stop, because it’s such a bloody blast. He dares a glance at Harry, who’s still staring at him. The man’s eyes positively glitter, a slow but steady flush creeping up his neck and he looks so very different from the afternoon at the park. He’d probably be scalding to the touch this time around, if Eggsy were to kiss him again. He licks his lips and nibbles at an onion ring, most certainly not thinking about snogging Harry right outside in the back alley. What would he look like disheveled and out of breath? Eggsy hasn’t thought about that since the day they met. _Oh god._

 

Eggsy finishes the last of the chips and clears his throat awkwardly. Harry, either utterly oblivious or deliberately disregarding Eggsy’s turmoil, sips at the last of his Guinness like a man who is truly at peace. “I think,” he says and licks a bit of foam from his upper lip, “I’d rather fancy getting out of here. Bit of fresh air, perhaps? It is getting a tad hot in here.”

“Yeah, sounds great,” Eggsy concedes a bit too fast and wipes his increasingly sweaty palms on his jeans. Harry gathers his coat and umbrella, rising gracefully from his seat and Eggsy trails after him, stuffing one arm after the other into his jacket sleeves.

They swoop out into the night and another party bustles past them into the pub. Eggsy glances down each end of the road and decides to head left, Harry following after him as he wraps himself into his coat.

“I’ve still got your gloves,” Eggsy says and turns to look at Harry beside him.

He holds up his hands. “Pray tell, what am I supposed to do with two pairs? Especially, if you have none left.”

Eggsy wants to protest, but his tongue’s all twisted up, so he slips on the gloves to fend off the cold and doesn’t think too hard about it. They make their way along the pavement, laughing about nothing. Harry looks around for a cab every now and then, coming up with nothing. Eventually, he huffs, “Alright, I’m tempted to just order a cab now. This is ridiculous.”

“I once read an article that said cabbies have a tendency to work less on rainy nights, even if business is s’posed to be better.”

Harry frowns. “And that helps us how?”

“No fucking clue.” Eggsy bursts out laughing again, breathless and damp from standing in the drizzle. “But ya ain’t the only one gettin’ impatient in some areas of life. In fact, if _you_ don’t do something rash very soon, _I’m_ gonna go absolutely nuts.”

It’s Harry’s turn to laugh, cab forgotten and how on earth did they end up on such a deserted street in the first place? “Hasn’t anyone taught you young things a bit of patience? In my day-”

“This isn’t an Austen novel and if you keep courting me like we’re in one, I swear-” He doesn’t even know what. It’s not as though Eggsy would walk away. Bit too late now, he decides and Harry Hart simply mutters: “Uh-huh.”

Eggsy chews on his lower lip and wonders whether he could still make run for the hills, if he really tried, or whether he’s done for already. “Come on,” he says and turns to keep walking, but Harry grabs him by the sleeve with a look that stops him dead in his tracks.

“I thought you wanted some _action_.” He cocks his head to one side with feigned innocence and his breaths come out in short huffs, white smoke swirls dancing in the light as Eggsy stops breathing altogether.

He goes without resistance, stunned, when Harry grabs his face and looks at him for a long moment with a barely there smile before he kisses Eggsy. It takes him a moment - or perhaps seven more - before his brain kicks into full gear and he’s reciprocating with full force, hands latching onto Harry’s coat like he depends on it.

They gasp for  air every once in awhile, hands scrambling across backs and arms with far too much fabric leaving far too little skin. Eggsy has no idea how many minutes pass with the two of them standing there, kissing the living lights out of one another. Most definitely too late to pretend Harry Hart isn’t someone he seriously likes.

They break apart yet another time for air, only this time Eggsy  tips his head up to the sky and god he is so light headed he may as well tip over. Instead, he drops his head against Harry’s chest with a firm grip on the man’s lapels before he starts giggling madly. Somewhere between hysterical breaths he manages a half hearted ‘shit’. Most definitely too late to pretend Harry Hart isn’t someone he seriously likes.

Harry wraps his arms around Eggsy and even though he doesn’t laugh, Eggsy can feel his amusement reverberate through his entire body as though it has a physical form. “I’ve had quite a few reactions to making a move, but this is new.”

“Well, considerin’ your timeline, _I’m_ pretty new too.”

“Not sure I intend on keeping it that way.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and Eggsy swats him on the chest. Harry smiles and glances down the street. “Still no cab.”

“We’ll walk. It’s not far to the tube and I know a shortcut through there.” Eggsy points towards a garden on the other side of the street. Harry, not amused, rolls his eyes. He lets himself be led anyway, because it’s getting very late and increasingly colder by the minute.

On the other side, Eggsy hesitates on the pavement for a moment, but jumps over the fence into someone’s garden anyway. Harry follows suit. The houses on the street lie silent and dark as the two of them creep along to the fence and out the back into a narrow space between two houses and weave their way through some bins stacked along the brick walls.

Two streets down, the neighbourhood looks significantly sketchier with an abandoned shopping cart rusting on the pavement. “Just a couple more,” Eggsy says.

Harry continues to trail after him, heart beating subtly faster, because he hasn’t done something like this in years. Eggsy pushes open another garden gate and they pour into an alley that’s apparently occupied to their great surprise.

Whomever is at the other end of the narrow passage seems to take note of them as well, looking up from god knows what they’re doing. Behind the figures, someone else yells, “Oi, ain’t that Muggsy?”

“Bollocks,” Eggsy mutters, distantly recognizing the voice. The next rings crystal clear in his mind.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Muggsy, indeed. What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

Behind him, Harry asks, “Do you know these gentlemen?”

“Wish I didn’t,” Eggsy grumbles as Rottweiler takes a step closer.

“What did you fuckin’ say?”

“I ain’t said nothin’.”

“Dean says you’re a fair guy now ‘n’ I don’t give a fuck what your mum says,” Rottweiler barks and how did Eggsy ever manage to forget the particular brand of vile that shines in his eyes. He takes a step back, cornered against the garden gate and there’s no way in hell Harry will be quick enough for them to make a run for it and dash back out over the very fences they’ve climbed to get here in the first place.

“Listen boys,” Harry says diplomatically, “It is rather late - and although I am certain your beef with Eggsy is well founded - I suggest leaving it for another time, as you lot seem to meet on the regular.”

Eggsy holds his breath as Rottweiler’s expression changes from confusion to rage filled indignation, though Harry doesn’t seem to be bothered by that one bit. Either the man has no sense of self preservation or he’s gone insane, Eggsy thinks.

To his surprise, Rottweiler doesn’t lash out with swinging fist, but sneers at Harry nonetheless, “You should get out of the way, Granddaddy, or you'll get hurt a lot.”

“He ain’t jokin’,” Eggsy says and grabs Harry by the arm to pulls him behind himself. This is a problem between himself and Rottweiler, or rather him and Dean Baker, and he isn’t about to drag Harry Hart into that mess. Eggsy shoots him a pleading look and something in his face shifts.

“Excuse me,” Harry mutters and shoulders his way past Eggsy, past Rottweiler, Poodle, and Spitz.

Clearly pleased with himself, Rottweiler grins at his friends. He calls after Harry, “If you're looking for another rent boy, they're on the corner of Smith Street.”

_Oh, shit._ The thought flashes briefly through Eggsy’s mind, like lightning and gone again in an instant, because Rottweiler’s hounding in on him like the menacing monster he is. Just because he’s about to have his arse kicked, Eggsy doesn’t have to let them do any more damage than necessary. Rottweiler takes the first swing, Eggsy dodging. He notices Harry out of the corner of his eye: fifteen feet from them, staring with the reflection of his glasses the only thing he can make out from his silhouette.

Eggsy takes a hit, stumbling back against the gate with his arms up to protect himself. Somewhere further down the alley, Harry gets a firm grip on his umbrella and smashes it right into Poodles’ temple.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops.
> 
> If you want to come yell at me for leaving such an idiotic cliffhanger, you can find me at obfuscatress.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eggsy and Harry finally have to deal with Rottweiler & his gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for my prolonged absence due to school being an absolute nightmare and some long standing physical issues. The former is no longer an issue, since I finished finals a few weeks ago and am now recovering from the physical and mental strain of that. From here on out you can expect at least biweekly updates to this story :D Thank you for your patience.

He’s a little too distracted by the crack of knuckles against the less delicate bones in his face to fully comprehend the situation. For all Eggsy knows he might be having visions, not  _ quite _ sure whether he saw Harry smash a knee into someone’s face before or after a flare of pain explodes across the right side of his face. Eggsy staggers, struggling to find his centre of gravity even as he’s swinging his fists blindly to keep his attackers at bay and get a hold of  _ what the fuck is going on _ .

Spitz backs off at a blow to his ribs. Rottweiler shoves Eggsy up against a wall with vitriol as he spits something into his ear. Eggsy doesn’t hear a word, too caught up in a yelp from a whole ‘nother fight down the alley: Harry Hart beating Poodle to a pulp with his blasted umbrella.

“Oi, what the fuck you lookin’ at,” Rottweiler barks, forearm pressing even further into Eggsy’s windpipe, until he’s struggling for breath with every fiber of his body. Eggsy kicks out viciously and grinds a hand into Rottweiler’s face. He’s not made it this long without picking up on a trick or two, even if he sags miserably to the ground for an instance.

He’s on his feet not a moment too early, circling to the other side of the alley with Rottweiler staring him down. This time he keeps his eyes strictly on Dean’s protege despite the grunts and shouting coming from Harry’s direction. His face is throbbing like hell and he could swear his eye is swelling up at a very alarming rate. All he’d wanted was a casual night out.

Rottweiler and him grapple for a while, Spitz landing the odd jab from time to time. He’s injured, which might be the only reason Eggsy hasn’t ended up face down and half dead on the ground yet. In a moment of pure luck, Eggsy manages to knock Spitz out properly. The temporary rush of victory is undermined almost immediately when Rottweiler pulls out a switchblade.

“Woah now,” Eggsy says. He’s got about six inches of space before his back is up against the wall and he holds out a placating hand. “Listen-”

“I ain’t listenin’’ to a guy who mugged my fuckin’ car.”

He doesn’t get to take another step, Harry Hart appearing out of the shadows like a disheveled angel of vengeance with his right arm swinging at Rottweiler’s temple. It’s a fluid movement, Harry’s hips and shoulders twisting with the momentum of the punch. It happens so fast and yet Eggsy feels like it lasts a million years, his heart beating forcefully in his throat.

Rottweiler wobbles and goes down in an ungraceful slump into unconsciousness and Harry stands over him panting. “Christ, I haven’t done something like this in ages,” he says. “You okay?”

Eggsy nods and mutters, “We have to go.”

He pushes himself off the wall and pulls Harry out of the alleyway. His head hurts and he can’t think properly, not with a clammy hand wrapped in his and limited vision to discern his surroundings. Harry seems to sense that and pulls at his hand. “Come on.”

They half jog down a few blocks until they find themselves in front of a tiny 24 hour market and no closer to the tube. looking around Eggsy says, “Right, I’m just gonna say I’ve no fuckin’ clue where we are.” He lets out a nervous giggle and sinks to the ground to accommodate his less than steady legs. It’s hard to breathe and he’s dizzy, hoping Harry will take it from here so his head can stop spinning.

“I think it might be appropriate to get that cab.”

Eggsy nods and lets himself drop his head between his knees. He counts his breaths like his dad taught him to as a kid, thinks of the way the flakes in his favourite snowglobe whirled around before they settled at the bottom.

“Eggsy?”

He looks up at Harry giving him a worried look. The sight of his smashed glasses and the scrape on the side of his face make Eggsy feel guilty. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for that to happen. Although, you seem to have held your own.”

“That was hardly your fault,” Harry insists. His smile is bright and genuine and so Eggsy grins back at him.

“What happened to Poodle, by the way?”

“I’d say he’s gonna smell like compost for quite some time.”

“Oh my god,” Eggsy laughs, “What is it about you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.” He chews on his lip because he doesn’t quite know how to put Harry into words. Eggsy’s smile falters when Harry says, “So, the boy with the knife… - not that I would exactly consider him a trustworthy individual - he accused you of stealing a car?”

Eggsy sighs. “Yeah, that was a really stupid thing to do. He’s a bully and part of my old neighbourhood’s gang, my stepdad’s protege.” He really doesn’t want to use the word ‘dad’ in any sentence relating to Dean, but it is the easiest way to explain things to Harry. “They’re all a violent, verbally abusive lot. One night I nicked his keys, pulled a couple donuts in his face in the pub parking lot and sped off with my mates. Unfortunately the cops caught on. It was all supposed to be a bit of harmless fun, but there was a fox on the road, I panicked, and the car got trashed. He’s had it out for me ever since.”

“You’re a self proclaimed hero then,” Harry says and Eggsy doesn’t miss the critical egde in his voice.

“Look, I ain’t proud of what I did. I was just so tired of letting ‘em get away with terrorising innocent kids ‘round the neighbourhood.”

“I don’t judge you. You’ve clearly learned violence is not a way to forge yourself a path in life. Besides, I’ve gotten into a fair few useless brawls in my lifetime.” Harry takes off his glasses and folds them into his pocket.

“Still, you shouldn’t have ended up in the middle of it. And I’m sorry about your glasses.”

“It’s no problem. I don’t actually need them to see; they are more of a professional gimmick.”

Eggsy still feels the need to profusely apologize simply because every single item Harry wears could pay for his rent. He doesn’t get the chance when the cab drives up in front of them. Harry gives him a hand and they slip into the back wordlessly. Eggsy is too tired to pay attention to where they’re going. He looks at his lap instead, glancing at Harry’s scraped knuckles. Following his gaze, Harry bumps their knees together with a friendly smile.

 

* * *

Harry Hart’s house is perhaps the poshest place Eggsy has ever set foot in. He stops just inside the hall, perplexed at the fact that there’s at least four doorways and a staircase, virtually no end in any direction.

“Are you going to come inside or what?” Harry asks behind him sounding amused.

Eggsy takes a few steps towards what he presumes to be the kitchen and says, “Jesus, this place is massive.”

“Well, that’s a bit of an overstatement, but it is quite spacious for a single man.”

“Harry, this is London. This place must cost a fortune. I mean, I knew you were rich, but holy shit.”

He isn’t prepared for the uncomfortable smile that passes across Harry’s face. “I am not exactly intent on advertising my wealth. It seems like an outdated factoid.”

“That’s not true, but I don’t blame you for not saying anythin’. Someone might mistake you for a high class sugar daddy.” Eggsy grins and while Harry doesn’t look any more at ease, he smiles back at him. “At least you know I’m seeing you for more than…” he falters, glancing around, “that  _ absolutely insane  _ wine cabinet. What the actual fuck?”

“Language.”

“Oh, come on. Introduce me, will you?”

“I am terribly sorry, but I think this situation calls for hard liquor instead.”

Eggsy doesn't mind that all. “And you keep that where?”

Harry points him toward the sitting room and Eggsy decides to kiss the smug smile off his face. He shoves Harry up against the kitchen doorway and whispers: “You posh bastard.”

“Mmh, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Surprisingly enough the ancient couch is one of the most comfortable things Eggsy has sat on. The fabric seems to be new and soft despite the old, wooden frame. Eggsy lets himself be held upright by the high back while Harry picks his favourite drink out of an inconspicuous liquor cabinet. By the time Harry hands Eggsy a glass, he’s kicked off his shoes and pulled his legs up on the couch.

“Damn, that really hits the spot.”

“It’s certainly better than the beer earlier,” Harry sighs. “But I will admit the crab cakes were worth the subpar drink.”

“How very generous of you,” Eggsy murmurs and shuffles up to Harry. “So, listen-” he isn’t really sure what to say, distracted by the way Harry keeps staring at him. Not thinking, he licks his lips and pulls at Harry’s shirt to get closer. “You seriously deserve a medal.”

“I don’t know about that, but I did get you. Prize enough.”

“Don’t objectify me,” Eggsy says, but shoves at Harry good naturedly anyway. Lucky for him the other man goes without protest, slipping down the armrest of the couch. Eggsy scoots out from under Harry’s knees and climbs into his lap, chasing Harry’s mouth with his own. “This stuff tastes even better  _ on you _ .”

He can feel Harry roll his eyes, although he doesn’t seem to protest when Eggsy shoves off his suit jacket and goes starts unbuttoning his shirt. Eggsy has the thought that this works much better without the glasses, no matter how much he likes them on Harry. In fact, he mightn’t be against having Harry dressed down completely.

“Eggsy,” Harry mumbles and he’s a bit offended Harry can even talk. Eggsy tugs at his hair, but Harry isn’t letting up. He pushes Eggsy upwards and says, “Eggsy, you’re bleeding.”

“Wha-”

He realises exactly what when he feels something wet drip from his nose onto Harry’s neck. “Oh shit,” Eggsy gasps and presses the back of his hand against his nose. He notices the smear of blood on Harry’s face, the other half of the mess probably on his own and sniffles helplessly smelling only iron. A nosebleed, what fucking luck.

“Here, let me.” Harry hands him his pocket square and clambers out from him to disappear in the kitchen.

Eggsy presses the cloth against his nostril, wondering just how much it might be worth. _ What a disaster _ , he thinks and prays for his erection to disappear before Harry comes back. At this rate the house will be in flames within the hour, possibly hit by lightning too. He coughs uncomfortably when Harry returns with a first aid kit and he is in no better a state.

“Let’s start with this,” Harry says and hands him a damp cloth to clean off his face. On one hand Eggsy is grateful, on the other his embarrassment is going to burn on his face as soon as the blood is gone.

Harry inspects his head wound in the meantime and Eggsy turns his head obediently to let Harry dab antiseptic on it. Looking over the back of the couch he realises he isn’t the only one inconveniently aroused. He makes eye contact with Harry and he could swear the man blushes even worse than him. “Perhaps, we will leave the treatment of that to another time.”

“Deal.”

“Now, let me get a look at that skull of yours.”

Before he knows it Eggsy has a tight wound cotton ball shoved in his nostril, a cleaned and bandaged wound on the back of his skull, and an ice pack on his swollen eye. “Thanks for the masterful patch up.”

“You are an easy patient and I have to admit you know how to take a hit.”

“It’s not the only thing I know how to take,” Eggsy says without thinking and cringes a moment later. Considering he can’t even wink thanks to being blind on the one half on his face, he should not be attempting any sexual remarks. “Sorry, inappropriate.”

“Agreed. Maybe a shower would help,” Harry suggests. “Not to offend you, but you do smell rather awful.”

“I’ll put that down to the alley.” He gets to his feet, wobbling gracelessly. He clears his throat and ask, “Where do I go?”

“Take the upstairs bath. I’ll find you a towel and some pyjamas in the meantime.”

Eggsy is about to comment on the ridiculous notion of having an  _ upstairs bath _ when he remembers he’s supposed to be home by now walking JB. “Oh shit.”

“Something wrong?”

“I forgot about JB. I should go home.”

“Eggsy, you have a concussion. You really shouldn’t be alone right now, or exercising for that matter.”

“I know, I know but I can’t just ditch my dog.” He groans and rubs his eyes because he is about two minutes from keeling over and this is all becoming more than he can take. “Okay, um, I’ll text Rox and try to call in a favour. But if she doesn’t answer while I shower, I’m going.”

Harry nods and they fall into an efficient little dance, Harry showing him to the bath and disappearing in his oversized bedroom to look through the drawers. Eggsy leaves his phone by the sink and decides to go for a cold shower to fix the problem caused by their slightly misguided make out session and then a warm bath to get rid of the tension in his body. By the time he emerges from the tub there are three towels on the counter and a pair of silk pyjamas laid out on the bed. What’s even more surprising is Harry, propped up against the headboard dressed for bed with a book in his hands.

“Hey you, I thought you said you didn’t need glasses,” Eggsy says.

“I don’t. Reading is a strain on the eyes, especially as you get older. Doesn’t mean I’m going blind. Enough about the ailments of old age. Did Roxy reply?”

“I only just realised she doesn’t get off for another fifteen minutes.” He wants so desperately to slip on Harry’s pyjamas and curl up in bed, but he’ll be out solid if he succumbs to the temptation. “Where are my clothes?”

“In a bag downstairs.”

Eggsy opens his mouth to protest, but Harry silences him by pointing to an armchair in the corner and saying: “I got those out in case you have to leave. There is no point in getting clean only to put on soiled clothes.”

Eggsy sighs, “You’re too kind. I’d offer you my bruised body if I weren’t on the verge of dying from exhaustion.”

“If you really want to do me a favour, sit down on the bed at least until you hear back.”

“Fine, but you gotta promise to keep me awake.”

Eggsy takes a seat next to Harry, careful to drag his towel along with him. For being a stripper he’s become strangely shy around, what by now surely could be called, his boyfriend. He has to force himself to keep his eyes open, flicking through the Kingsman’s Instagram to keep himself from falling asleep. He is twenty minutes in, getting cold in just the one damp towel, and about to call it quits when he finally gets a message from Roxy.

“So?” Harry asks expectantly, eyebrows rising over the rim of his glasses.

“Looks like I’m staying over, if you’ll have me.”

Harry puts his book down and grins at him. “With pleasure.”

Eggsy, overwhelmed and relieved to be able to go to bed at last, kisses Harry on the mouth before bouncing off the bed to get dressed. He winces and glares at Harry, who laughs at his misery. 

“There’s a tube of Arnica cream under the counter for the bruising,” he shouts after Eggsy, “If you ask nicely, I’ll even rub it in.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes but throws the tube at him anyway. “Go ahead then, Mr Nurse.” He’s surprised at how little disappointment he feels when Harry makes the procedure quick and efficient, but his exhaustion really is winning over his some of his other needs.

So much so that he is already halfway under the covers by the time he’s buttoning up the silk shirt. It might be the most frivolous thing he’s ever slept in, although it does also happen to be the softest thing his body has had the pleasure of encountering. For that alone he considers Harry Hart a saint. When Harry turns out the lights and grabs his hand under the covers, Eggsy snaps his eyes open to stare at him in the dark. He would say something if he could be sure it wouldn’t come out as something he might regret later. He squeezes Harry’s hand and closes his eyes again to push away a feeling that is strangely akin to love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having been gone so long I'd love to hear how you feel about this new chapter. It's always a bit tricky to pick up where you left off with something you haven't worked on in months.
> 
> Thank you for reading and sticking with me!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to make clear I have nothing against Burger King, but something had to give. Enjoy!

The thudding sensation in his head is not at all similar to that of a hangover. Eggsy rubs a hand across his forehead, struggling for an instance to remember what has happened. Then he touches upon his black eye, registers the tightness in his throat and the previous night zips through his mind in distorted shreds. A knife, someone’s laugh twisting strangely, Harry frowning into a pint of beer like it’s piss.

Harry, that’s the last thing he recalls. Eggsy pats the bed expecting a dozing body but there is only duvet within his reach. He makes the effort of cracking open the one eye he can see out of to find Harry is indeed not there. He lets himself collapse and sighs.

None of this makes any sense to him. He’s in a laughably large house in an upscale neighbourhood he’s never even dreamt of staying in for a single night. He’s a twenty-four-year-old stripper doing god knows what in the bed of a bloke twice his age with manners that make Eggsy want to cry tears of joy. He knows he’d have run out of patience trying to get laid by now. After all, someone like Harry Hart isn’t after him for afternoon tea and a cuddle, no matter the wooing game they’ve been playing. Eggsy isn’t stupid. If ever he’s had visions for where his life is headed, this isn’t it.

Better get up and on with it, he decides. He’s a pitiful sight, limping from the bed with a pained grimace and an involuntary groan. He maps his bruises swiftly between undressing and redressing in Harry’s clothes. The trousers are too large on him even with the strings drawn tight and he’s convinced he’s been given a cashmere jumper. At this rate he’s gonna have half a closet full of Harry’s stuff before he’s pulled his pants off. Roxy’s gonna have a good laugh, again.

Eggsy is surprised to find Harry popping his head out of the kitchen as soon as he’s set foot on the first step of the stairs.

“Ah, you’re up.Take a seat in the dining room. I’ve made breakfast.” His smile is impossible and Eggsy’s in return is too.

Eggsy slips into one of the two chairs with a table mat laid out in front of it and studies the three stacked plates and surrounding cutlery placed on the table at careful angles. He feels a hot pang of embarrassment thinking of what is to come, namely him messing up whatever setup this is. He considers looking up a quick guide online, but remembers his phone has died overnight. Harry doesn’t leave him time to worry about it.

He appears with a pan to serve up half an omelette for Eggsy and the other half for himself. Eggsy watches him fuss like he does this everyday, rushing back to the kitchen to fetch a basket with warm buns hidden under a linen towel.

“I never imagined you’d wear an apron,” Eggsy says and Harry pauses with his hands on the strings in the back.

“Oh?”

“It looks absolutely ridiculous in the best of ways.”

“I’m not certain whether that was a compliment or not – might want to work on the delivery – but what else am I supposed to wear while cooking? Or do you suggest I soil my shirt?”

“‘Soil your shirt’ my arse,” Eggsy huffs, “Who makes English breakfast in an Armani dress shirt anyway?”

Harry pulls the apron over his head and says, “I have no idea what you’re insinuating,” with near sincere innocence. The quirk of his mouth when he folds the apron over the back of the chair gives him away mercilessly. He cuts of Eggsy’s yelp of victory by tugging the towel off the buns. “I suggest you stop running your pretty little mouth and eat. The buns are getting cold,  _ darling _ .”

For that remark alone Eggsy ought to get up and walk out the door or at the very least shove Harry up against a wall and kiss him senseless, but his mind draws a complete blank that’s filled by the rumble of his stomach. Reluctantly, he reaches for the bread.

Harry folds a napkin over his lap and follows Eggsy with his gaze as he digs in with vigour. “I take it you’re feeling alright then despite last night?”

“I groan like me nan on a bad day, but other than the bruising I’m all good,” Eggsy says and shoves a quarter of the omelette in his mouth in a single go.

He notes the way Harry watches him, though he can’t place the emotion that crosses his face. Eggsy is too preoccupied trying to mirror Harry’s movements in spreading out the dishes correctly to consider the man himself, although he does mumble, “Fuck, this is divine. I’d hire you as a live-in cook if I had the cash.”

“If I didn’t have a job already, I’m sure we could sort out some means of payment.” He wiggles his eyebrows and Eggsy tries desperately not to choke on his coffee. Harry reaches nonchalantly for the butter as though he hasn’t just attempted murder by seduction, and quips, “By the way, the knife you’re using to cut your omelette is meant for the butter.”

Eggsy swallows. “It’s not my fault your lot has a problem with settling for the one knife,” he grumbles, “Besides, what if I put butter on the omelette?”

“You’d still cut the actual omelette with another knife.”

“Well, then aren’t I just a bastard child?”

“Yes, but I’m rather fond of that, because I  _ do _ have to agree six sets of silver knives  _ is _ a tad excessive, but I’m not about to let them rot away in the drawer the one time I have company.”

“How very pragmatic of you.” Eggsy rolls his eyes and does the one thing even he knows how to do: wipe his mouth with the tip of his napkin. “I bet you the person who came up with all these knives and plates and spoons never had to wash a dish in their entire life.”

“Lucky for you, you won’t have to either.”

“I’m sure we can figure out an alternative payment method for breakfast.” It’s his turn to throw a suggestive line over the table with a wink. Harry merely shakes his head and reaches for a second bun and Eggsy smiles with self satisfaction.

 

* * *

 

Eggsy is home three quarters of an hour later with his dirty clothes in a plastic bag and a love bite behind his ear. JB is there to greet him at the door, snorting restlessly at having been left alone for so long. He finds a dried lipstick outline of someone smooching his mirror and a note from the culprit that reads ‘2:10am, you bastard’ in Roxy’s nearly illegible handwriting.

“Huh, I reckon that means it’s time for us to go out, what d'ya say?” Eggsy croons at his already over excited dog and laughs when the pug goes absolutely berserk. He throws his clothes in the wash, gets changed, and plugs his phone in before he heads out again.

There’s something relieving about being home, slipping back into ordinary life. Harry is exciting with his suits and history and a the ability to fend for himself if needs must. But Eggsy likes this too: a familiar bed to himself, walking JB through a little stretch of grass that doesn’t quite qualify as a park, his sweats, and his unorthodox job. He can’t reconcile those two worlds despite Harry’s constant reminders that he’s come from the same place.

No matter where he started, Harry is probably meeting royalty tomorrow and Eggsy, well, he’s working the late shift on the pole. “Oh shit,” he mumbles realising he is in no way fit to do that. Not when he’s battered and bruised like this. And if it weren’t for the pain, there would still be the aesthetic dilemma of his current state; he’s already getting plenty of looks out on a walk.

Merlin is going to kill him.

There is no way for him around this, though, and so Eggsy decides he might as well go to the club now and let Merlin inspect the damage for himself. Maybe a twenty-four hour warning will save him from execution by death glare. He tugs gently at JB’s leash to pull him in the opposite direction of where they were headed and starts towards Kingsman.

The building is unassuming from the outside with the logos of the club not giving away what actually goes on inside. Eggsy picks JB up in the doorway and glances up the staircase into the older parts of the building where Arthur’s office and the firm’s basis lies. He heads down the stairs towards Merlin’s lair, hoping no one spots him before Merlin.

Monday is even more deserted than usual with the lights turned up bright for the weekly scrubbing of the floors and stage. It’s Roxy and Bedivere’s turn to sort through laundry this week and Merlin is at the bar stocking up the rare liquors.

“Hey,” Eggsy calls over the bar at the top of Merlin’s head.

The man doesn’t look up, but grumbles into the cabinet, “If you’re trying to wrangle out of laundry duty next week, you can leave right away.”

“Uh, yeah not here for that,” Eggsy says and adjusts a grunting JB. “I kinda got in a bit of a tiff last night.”

He hears the sound of a few bottles being being moved, a deep sigh, and then Merlin gets to his feet. “What now?” His question is answered immediately by the sight of Eggsy’s swollen and cut up face. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. I told Harry not to fuck around.”

Taken aback, Eggsy says: “What? This wasn’t Harry. This wasn’t even remotely his fault; we ran into some acquaintances of mine on the street.”

Eggsy doesn’t miss the way Merlin’s expression morphs ever so slightly and he’s certain he’ll try to go back on his words. “Harry would never hurt me,” Eggsy adds, still confused.

“I wasn’t saying that,” Merlin says slowly with a patient intonation that annoys Eggsy. “What I told Harry is not to take you out to do extreme sports or martial arts, both  of which he is fond of. Which is something you might want to know, if you’re so hellbent on defending him.” His eyebrows rise slightly, making his opinion on Eggsy’s eagerness clear and the boy can’t hide the flush in the tips of his ears.

“Got it.” He cradles JB tighter and forces himself to keep his jaw from clamping shut.

Merlin seems to soften at seeing him tense up and he motions with his hand for Eggsy to come closer. Wordlessly, he turns Eggsy’s head from side to side, humming as he makes his appraisal. “Are you injured anywhere else?”

“There’s bruises on my torso too. No wounds, ribs intact.”

Merlin nods and says, “Take off your shirt.”

Eggsy hesitates for a moment, then sets JB on the ground and ties him to a bar stool. He undresses quickly and lets Merlin circle him in silence.

“Well, I can’t put you on the stage like this. The bruising on the torso isn’t a problem so long as it’s purple. We’ll just run a street fight special for that, but the swelling on the eye has got to go and we need to do something about your throat. Strangulation doesn’t have enough sex appeal or this stage.” Merlin seems to contemplate their options for a moment before he calls out for Roxy.

She appears from behind the stage curtains with her hair put up and the sleeves of her shirt pushed up. “Yeah?” she asks, glancing between Eggsy and Merlin.

“Your pal here has gotten himself into a bit of a pickle. Reckon you can fix it.”

She cocks an eyebrow, wipes her hands on her trousers and walks over to take a look at Eggsy. “Wow, you seriously do look like shit.”

“Thanks.” He rolls his eyes.

Ignoring Eggsy, Roxy says, “I can probably cover the bruises on the chest area with makeup, but I wouldn’t be so sure about the black eye.”

“What about the throat?”

“Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Again, Eggsy and Roxy are left to stand there while Merlin contemplates the situation. They share a look, both always wary of Merlin’s capacity for lunacy after their trial period.

“Right,” Merlin says eventually, “Try to get the swelling to go down as much as possible by tomorrow. I’ll put you on the waiting shift, and Roxy you’ll be moved to Eggsy’s spot in the show. Both of you come in early enough to cover up the bruising on the throat and torso. When your eye looks better I’ll put you on stage for a few days, but you’re back on table duty as soon as the bruises yellow. Is that clear?”

They both nod and Merlin dismisses them with a wave, returning to his inventory. Eggsy is about to head out with JB, when Roxy grabs him by the arm on the staircase and asks, “Hey, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I ran into some trouble with kids from my old neighbourhood.”

The worry in her face seems to dissipate a bit. “I can come over with late lunch after I’m done here.”

“No, I’ll take you out. I owe you for walking JB last night.” As if to back up Eggsy’s point, JB snorts and her face softens, cracking into a smile.

“Alright, but we’re not going to Burger King this time,” Roxy says and rubs JB’s head affectionately.

“What’s wrong with Burger King?”

Already halfway down the stairs again Roxy turns to give him one of her long suffering looks. “Please, what isn’t wrong with Burger King?” she asks and Eggsy mumbles his defences into JBs fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene is loosely based off that deleted breakfast scene. Next update is the week after next, most likely early on in the week as Camp NaNoWriMo starts halfway through :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to basics this time. Thank you to potter-you-git for helping me out re: insecurities about pacing in Eggsy's performance. Hopefully it worked out now. All remaining mistakes and oddities are completely my own.

“This is looking great,” Roxy murmurs with a brush ghosting at his neck, “which is exactly what you need to break the bank.”

Eggsy can’t do more than hum in agreement when his head is at an angle and Roxy’s hit him before for talking while she works. So far she’s done a fantastic job not only covering up his bruises, but also highlighting his muscles for the low lighting of the floor, since Eggsy can hardly oil himself up covered in make up. It still isn’t enough to reel in the normal amount of tips. Having missed out on three days on the stage, he’s got a two day special programme scheduled that Merlin’s been training him relentlessly for for the whole week.

“It needs to be perfect,” he’d said and Eggsy knows what that means. Friday nights make the most money and if the performance falls short tonight, it will come out of his pay.

Seemingly satisfied with her work, Roxy steps back with a pleased smirk. “Merlin said it’s packed today, but I bet you no one’s going to notice these marks.”

“Yeah, I’d assume the purple crater on my face would do catch most people’s attention first.”

“It’ll certainly help,” Roxy agrees and pulls off her sweater to get ready for the heat in the club. She has the floor shift today and with that finally a chance to rest a little, even if rest for them means prancing around in underwear for hours.

Eggsy watches her perfect her makeup by the mirror with an admirably steady hand, considering his segment drawing closer and closer and he is starting to feel ill.

“Stop worrying,” she says and spins around to look at him, “You’ll be alright, naked and terrified, but perfectly fine at doing your thing.”

“Thank you,” he mutters sarcastically at her vague gesture regarding his clothes.

“It’s my job.”

“Your job is makin’ sure I don’t look like someone tried to off me. Now, makin’ sure I don’t shit my pants is a friendly gesture I personally appreciate very much.”

Roxy sighs and shakes her head fondly at him. “You are such an idiot. Too bad I like you just as you are.” She’s gone with a peck on his cheek, the ruffles on her lingerie bouncing with every step.

This is his moment now. He sneaks into the dark space between the backstage and the stage curtain, tugging nervously at his cuffs. One song to undress seamlessly out of a three piece suit he couldn’t even put on without instructions. Not when his socks are hooked into his shoes, carefully engineered by Merlin to come off without a hitch.

He takes a deep breath when the crowd screams and he can count the seconds it takes for Bedivere to bow, flash his grin, and slip through the curtains. He catches a glimpse of Roxy bent over a table to take an order. She draws back graciously just in time for the lights to fade out.

Merlin’s voice cuts through the restless murmur of the audience with his accent crisp over the speakers. “Not to worry dear ladies and gents,” he says, “The light show is merely part of tonight’s special act. Please welcome our very own, renowned Galahad!” He’s yelling on the last word, his voice still drowning under the roar of the crowd.

Taking advantage of the noise, Eggsy takes his position on the stage and waits for everything to fall silent. Then the tape they’d recorded yesterday: sounds of a street fight, distance police sirens, somewhere underneath it all the music bleeding in until it’s the only thing left.

The stage slowly lights up with a single beam of warm yellow emulating a street lamp and Eggsy pretends to stagger away from a fight, unraveling his bow tie on the way. He lifts his head to face the crowd, counting on the distraction of his black eyes and the trickle of fake blood Roxy applied down the corner of his mouth to keep the attention off his hands while he removes his cufflinks. He tosses them into a metal bowl hidden in the shadows right outside of the spotlight beam.

The clang of the two metal pieces skidding to the bottom of the bowl echoes in the room. Eggsy wipes at the blood on his face -  _ a dye that’ll wash out easily _ , he recalls Roxy saying. He gives it a thoughtful look, brushing his index finger against the pad of his thumb to smear it. It stains the top button on his suit jacket with a glimmering print, stains the second one too. He slides the jacket off his shoulders and tosses it away with a haphazard gesture.

Swaying one way, he tugs his dress shirt out of his trousers on one side, disheveling himself little by little as the lights fade in throughout the club in increments. He starts to recognise the outlines of people’s faces as he advances to the front of the stage, undoing one button after another on his waist coat. By the time he stands in his designated spot in a ring of armchairs, the vest slips easily off him, falling to the floor with the golden fabric glimmering in the light.

At the far end of the room, sipping a pint of beer alone on the sofa, a suited figure catches his eye. What he recognises is the glint of the glasses: mischief incarnate. He pulls the rest of his dress shirt out properly and his hands tremble on the buttons staring at the unmoving head in the darkness. Of all the nights to be a voyeur, Harry Hart had to choose this one.

Eggsy swallows, struggling for breath. The air washing over his bare skin is cool and he shivers undoing the last button on his shirt to reveal the many bruises scattered across his torso. There is no knife here, no one choking him, but Harry is there: sitting in silence while the room is filled with audible gasps. Eggsy wriggles the shirt off his body, feeling naked on stage for the first time in a long time.

He must look like a deer caught in the headlights, barely breathing with shy surprise etching into his face as he runs a finger across the shoe shaped bruise at his hip - the last injury besides fear he’d sustained before Harry Hart had come to his rescue. The light changes and he loses the moment, his body caught in the rhythm of the music, moving on its own accord while his mind is preoccupied with a man who isn’t even supposed to be here.

He loses his shoes, undoes his belt, and dropping his carefully pressed trousers is meant for only one person in the room. Eggsy is vaguely aware of Roxy just to his right having stopped mid service to watch him. Harry smiles, barely, and that is all Eggsy needs to tear up.

_ One more moment _ . His fingers slip past the elastic on his pants and he pushes them off his skin until they’re free falling and he stand in a heap of his own clothes. Just like he’s rehearsed, but perhaps never fully performed, Eggsy steps out of the mess he’s made towards the edge of the stage. Swallowing back tears, he kneels down slowly, casting one last desperate look at the ceiling before he bows his head, letting the first tears fall. They’re crystalline in the bright lights. Eggsy can see the reflections of the overhead lights disappear in the droplets as they fade out.

In the darkness, there is thunderous applause.

* * *

 

Afterwards, it all happens as though he’s moving in a dream. In the dark, Eggsy gets to his feet and pushes his clothes off the stage with a quiet whoosh. He pads quietly across the stage, taking shallow breaths through his mouth for fear of accidentally hiccuping in his attempt to calm down. The cool air beyond the curtains is a relief, though the lights burn his eyes and he hurries to the back of the dressing room wiping furiously at his face.

Eggsy sniffles angrily, streaks of snot drying along the back of his arm as he puts his own clothes back on. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and he stops fussing for a moment, caught in surprise at how messed up he looks. It’s plain pathetic. He pulls at his shirt to smooth it out over his chest and take a few deep breaths. This was exactly what he needed to make the performance work. He still didn’t want Harry to witness any of it.

And yet, the whole thing would never have worked out this way without him there. Harry sitting there, watching, unaware he’s turned into Eggsy’s centre of gravity in the room. The thought of having to try to replicate the performance the next night makes Eggsy woozy, because to him that was all Harry’s doing. He realises Harry must be here for a reason and that he’s probably waiting for him somewhere out in the club.

Eggsy wipes the makeup off his neck and dabs at his face with a wet cloth to sort himself out. No longer looking like he’s been hit with the arse end of a bus, he grabs with coat and hurries out of the dressing room through a side corridor and past their storage room by the loos. He’s about to step into the low light of the club when someone grabs him from the shadows and Eggsy spins around to see Harry offering him a sly grin.

“Where are you headed?” he asks, pulling Eggsy towards the dark spot next to the doorway.

“To look for the mystery patron in the back of the club, but it seems I’ve already met him,” Eggsy says, finding himself pressed up against a wall and embarrassingly out of breath at a moment’s notice.

“Do you now?” Harry purrs and Eggsy shivers at the roughness in his voice. He gets the same overwhelming sense of being far too close to danger as he used to pressing his face into the glass of the lion’s cage at the zoo as a kid. Only this time there are no barriers and Harry’s lips brush against the shell of his ear when he whispers, “That act was supreme.”

Eggsy’s head instinctively turns to towards the sound to find Harry’s lips on his own, demanding and filthy and so very very bad in a deliciously obscene way. “I can hardly take all the credit,” Eggsy says breathlessly, shivering all over again at the sensation of Harry humming an ‘uh-huh’ against his jaw. His head tips back and Eggsy follows the spots of neon light flickering along the ceiling like he’s watching the stars.

Harry mouths something against his neck that Eggsy can’t make any damn sense of and quite frankly doens’t care to decipher. He’s too busy trying not to be painfully obvious about the sheer amount of pleasure he gets from Harry exploring the bruised and healed patches on his throat in turn like he’s mapping him out inch by inch. Eggsy nearly drops his coat fisting a hand into Harry’s blazer and his eyelids flutter for an instant as he forget to breathe.

“Careful, that’s expensive,” Harry says, his voice seeming to travel under Eggsy’s skin.

Not hearing a thing, he only grips tighter, pulling Harry in so close he isn’t sure there’s even an inch of space between them and Eggsy can’t focus on anything but the sheer amount of body heat surrounding him. Harry returns his attention to Eggsy’s mouth and this time Eggsy pushes back to take full control of the kiss. He chases Harry’s sinful mouth when he draws back, but find himself pinned to the wall by his wrists instead.

There’s just enough light for Eggsy to see the hurried rise and fall of his chest. His eyes glitter and Eggsy is tempted to fall to his knees right then and there to do more than slightly indecent things when someone passes them with a mumbled ‘excuse me’ and he becomes all too aware of where they are. As if sensing his line of thought, Harry pulls him further back into the corridor, his hands on Eggsy’s hips. They’re so close together their chests touch breathing unevenly.

Eggsy’s hands take on a life of their own, slipping under Harry’s blazer and up his back along a smooth shirt. Harry sighs when he twists a hand into his hair, and Eggsy doesn’t ever want to let go.

In a sudden moment of tenderness Harry is cheek to cheek with Eggsy, nosing at his hairline. “I have to fly to Laos tomorrow,” he whispers and Eggsy pulls back to give him a confused look.

“Laos?”

“It’s a work emergency. We buy some special fabrics from there and someone has to go down to inspect the shipment. I wasn’t supposed to, but my colleague got in an accident and can’t fly, so you see how that pans out.”

“So, you aren’t here to take me out, after all?”

“No, although I would love nothing more.”

Eggsy lets his head fall back against the wall. “For someone who spends his days sowing pants or somethin’ like that, you’re gone an awful lot.”

“I know it isn’t ideal.” Harry sounds genuinely sorry and Eggsy presses a placating kiss to his temple. “I’d love to take you out properly when I come back, if you’ll let me.”

“And what does that mean?”

“Five course dinner that’ll knock your socks off,” Harry murmurs and he manages to make it sound like sex. “I’ve made reservations for the Sunday after next at Terridge’s.”

“Hold on a minute, Terridge’s? You do know I don’t own anything fancy enough to wear to qualify as a waiter there,” Eggsy says nervously.

“Well, that’s why I reserved a time for you at my shop.” At Eggsy’s perplexed look, Harry rushes to add: “It’s on me, don’t worry.”

“I can’t possibly let you do that,” Eggsy says and slides his hands from Harry’s neck to the lapels of his suit. “The stuff you wear costs more than my rent. ”

“In my line of work it’s rather considered a necessity. Please, let me buy you a good suit,” he pleads. Harry must see the faint traces of uncertainty, because he takes Eggsy’s hands in his own. Squeezing them, he asks, “Can you indulge me this once?”

Sighing, Eggsy agrees. “If you put it like that.”

Harry grins at him and decides to smack a kiss onto his forehead as a thank you. Eggsy can’t help but laugh at that and pull Harry in for another kiss by his lapels.

“I hate to say this,” Harry says when he finally pulls away, “but I do have a flight to catch.”

“I see. Clothing emergencies to fix and all that, I suppose,” Eggsy jokes, not letting go of Harry.

“I am going to miss you,” Harry says and gives him one last kiss before he steps out of the dark. His face lights up with streaks of pink light of the night’s last performance and Eggsy can’t help but think he looks so very foreign here and yet he never wants to see Harry go.

“Call me,” Eggsy shouts over the music.

With a nod and a wave, Harry disappears into the pulsing life of the club. Eggsy clutches his coat close, all too aware of the persistent erection he’s going to have to walk home with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned earlier, I'm doing Camp NaNoWriMo in July. While the next update is the week after next, it'll probably close to/on the weekend, which makes that an almost three week wait. My biweekly schedule does refer to the whole week every other week, so good luck figuring that one out.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at obfuscatress.tumblr.com in the meantime.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make up for the slightly longer wait, here's a chapter nearly twice as long as the usual ones with more guest appearance than I care to count. Enjoy!

In Harry’s absence Eggsy bides his time like he has done all his life. It seems to him he has always been waiting for something grand to happen, or rather a sign to make something happen, but now, rolling over in bed to check his phone for even a single message, he is more concerned with the little things. Harry texts him goodnight and goodmorning at strange times and Eggsy cherishes it as a fine tie between his and Harry’s separate existences.

He has no actual idea as to what Harry is doing at any given moment, but today that doesn’t concern him either. Eggsy has a busy day ahead of him. His mum is coming over to drop Daisy off for the night and he still has to stock up on food, vacuum, do the dishes, and make sure to cover the lingering outlines of his injuries to keep her from worrying. By the time his doorbell rings, Eggsy is putting the finishing touches to his face, almost satisfied with the work he’s done.

“Mum, hi,” he says, swinging the door open with a bright smile in the hopes it’ll hide the slight puffiness on the one half of his face.

“Hello, luv.” Her smile is tight from stress, but she is still far better now than she used to be back when she was with Dean. There are no more bruises and she doesn’t look quite as worn and sad. The dark circles under her eyes are from working night shifts as a nurse in training, not the constant hesitant and broken hours of sleep from Dean making a racket at the flat. Michelle Unwin pushes the stroller through the threshold and says, “I’m in a bit of a hurry. The tube’s delayed today  ‘cause of an accident.”

“Yeah, it’s alright.”

Michelle nods and casts a worried glance at Daisy.

“Mum, we’ll be fine.”

“I know, I know,” she says and bites her lip. Michelle takes a moment to behold her son, a palm pressed against his cheek. The hopeful look on her face falters into worry and she asks, “What happened to your eye?”

“My eye?” Eggsy feigns confusion, hoping she won’t notice the way his pulse speeds up, then pretends to have a sudden revelation. “Oh, I accidentally ran into the kitchen cabinet door earlier. JB was so eager to be fed, I forgot I was in the middle of getting the cereal out. I really hope it doesn’t bruise. Does it look bad?”

“No. It’s just a bit puffy,” his mum says and dismisses the concern.

“Right, you oughta get goin’. Daisy and I wouldn’t wanna make you late,” Eggsy says and  crouches down to greet his sister. She is still drowsy from sleep, near lethargic, though she perks up in his presence. Eggsy beams up at his mum in a last effort at reassurance and Michelle Unwin finally dares to take her leave.

In the sudden quiet of the flat, Eggsy can hear her footsteps echo in the staircase. Daisy too notices, momentarily distressed at her mother’s absence, until Eggsy scoops her up and spins her around once.

“What are we two going to today, darling?” Eggsy asks her and Daisy points at JB with a stern look. He doesn’t know what it means, but the way the pug wags his tail suggests he agrees with his baby sister.

In the end, they spend the day inside, Eggsy flipping pancakes to entertain his sister, until he flips one halfway over the edge of the pan and almost drops it onto JB. Daisy finds it endlessly amusing, babbling about every little thing he does. Eggsy’s talked to her on the phone a few times, but it’s only sinking in now that his baby sister no longer speaks in one word commands.

“We watch Up?” Daisy asks halfway through lunch, her voice going high on the second word. “Watch Up, please.”

“I don’t have it, Dais.” Eggsy says apologetically. It does nothing to discourage her. Instead she only gestures wildly and tries to get off her chair.

“Mummy took it,” she says with earnest conviction and Eggsy has to smile at her serious face. But Daisy, wriggling herself to the floor, makes a dash for the stroller and continues muttering under her breath. Eggsy follows, amused and confused at once, until Daisy produces a DVD from the basket of books and toys attached to the bottom of her stroller.

“Oh, you mean Mummy _brought_ it _with her_.”

Daisy nods and shoves the film at him. “Watch it with me?”

“Yeah, alright. We can have a movie night,” Eggsy says and takes the case from her.

It’s technically only three in the afternoon, but Daisy is long overdue for a nap, the sky is clouded to the point of twilight, and he could honestly use a snooze too. Sometimes he’s set up a proper blanket fort for the two of them, but today he settles on pushing the coffee table up to the couch and grabbing them a few blankets and pillows to burrow into with JB getting his own little dog bed thrown in the mix.

All in all, both Daisy and JB seem satisfied, if the quiet mumbling of one and the broken snores of the other are anything to go by. Eggsy half dozes as his sister expresses her admiration for the dog in the film. He gets the feeling she’ll ask later if they can’t get a special collar for JB too, though for the moment she seems to be too occupied by her mind slowly drifting off into sleep. He waits for her breathing to become shallow before he pauses the movie and inches his way off the sofa to get a glass of water.

Outside, it has started snowing. He thinks of how excited Daisy will be when she wakes, doubting she remembers it from last year. Maybe he’ll be part of her first permanent memory of snow. His thoughts are interrupted by the ping of his phone in the bedroom.

Eggsy sneaks past the couch to fetch the device. The text is from Harry, unsurprisingly, but he still reads it with the self consciousness of a schoolboy about to get caught out with a love note. All it reads is:

_How is London? HH_

_Still standing. It’s snowing :) -E_

He glances at Daisy before he cracks the window open to take a picture. In return he receives a multicoloured sunset over a near still ocean.

_No such luck here. HH_

_Yeah, i bet. Come back & we’ll have a snow day 2gether ;) -E _

_As much as I’d love to, Merlin doesn’t allow those anymore since 1992. HH_

_??? -E_

_Very nasty snowball fight. He’s a terribly sore loser. HH_

_How r u alive even? -E_

_I held his dog hostage for three days, until he unfreezed my bank accounts. HH_

Eggsy snorts and JB stirs, shooting his owner a perplexed look. He decides to capture a picture of the scene for Harry: Daisy, drooling with her mouth half open and the DVD case clutched tight to her chest, and JB, tongue poking out of his mouth as a leftover from his slack jawed sleep.

_I don’t think the tired face of a middle aged man can match that sight. She’s adorable, though I didn’t peg you up as a babysitter._ HH

_Just looking after my baby sis is all. Plus ur face is legendary -E_

_Says Mr. Jawline… HH_

_U r one to talk, mr secret abs -E_

He receives a picture of a glass of whisky and Harry flipping him off. Eggsy has never been so happy to be insulted.

 

* * *

 

There are many shops in central London Eggsy would never stop to even window shop at, let alone set foot in. The one he’s staring at right now seems exactly like the kind. ‘ _Knights & co.’ _ the sign reads in gold letters, glaring down at him from Savile Row’s immaculate façade. It’s quite a small affair: only three suits in the window, but each of them screams Harry Hart and money. He supposes there’s a connection there as he climbs the steps.

Above the door, a bell chimes to announce his entry into a world of textured fabrics characterised by the scents of raw wool and exquisite leather. Eggsy’s eyes pan over the antique armchairs, the old chests with several glasses and a scotch decanter resting on a silver tray, waiting for some snobbish shopper swimming in money and drowning in boredom.

At the back of the room an older man appears at the counter and casts a surprised look at him over the rim of his glasses. “Can I help you, Sir?”

“Yeah, actually,” Eggsy says and takes a few hesitant steps into the shop, “I have an appointment for a suit measuring... thing.”

He wants to kick himself. It’s obvious enough he is completely out of place here in his sneakers and snapback, and he can’t shake the notion he must look like a common rentboy. The man behind the counter, however, seems to abstain from judgement and asks for his name instead.

“Uh, Eggsy.”

“Pardon me, was that Eggy?” the man asks.

“No, it’s Eggsy,” he repeats, cheeks colouring, “E-G-G-S-Y.”

Eggsy watches the man scan through a little notebook - an archaic way of keeping reservations that makes him feel even more out of place.

“Ah, yes, here. Mr Unwin at ten o’clock,” he says suddenly with a hint of a smile that comforts Eggsy infinitely. “If you would follow me, please.”

The old man gestures toward a fitting room and Eggsy hurries into motion, invited into this foreign world by that small wave of a hand. Catching himself in the fitting room mirror, he realises just how stark the contrast between his bright colours and the earthly tones of the shop are. The shopkeeper continues to smile at him from the doorway in his perfect tie and cozy cashmere sweater.

“If you would wait here, James will be with you in just a moment to initiate your appointment. You can take off your coat and shoes in the meantime.”

Too dumbfounded to say anything, Eggsy only manages a nod. He is left alone, nevertheless, and his mind finally kicks in with a rational thought. Shoes, coat. Eggsy deposits them neatly in the designated area and returns to stare at himself in the mirror with mounting nervousness.

When there’s a knock on the door a few minutes later, he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Good morning,” a man says in an all too cheerful voice as he lets himself into the dressing room. “How are we doing here today? I’m James, your tailor for the day. You must be the chap Harry’s been going on about.”

Eggsy shakes the proffered hand. “I suppose that’s me,” he says, “I’m Eggsy.”

“Right, Eggsy. Well, if you don’t mind, I have my own methods I work by, so try to hang in there and trust me in making a suit that fits you better than your own skin.” James grins, excessively wide, and Eggsy notices his glasses are a carbon copy of Harry’s. “First I’ll need to know your shoe size. There is no point to a suit without a good pair of shoes.”

“I wear a ten.”

“That’s a ten, please, George,” James shouts out of the fitting room. He takes off his own blazer, rolls up his sleeves, and moves to set up his supplies on a small dresser. His efficiency is more than a little intimidating. Eggsy’s head spins trying to follow everything. By the time George shows up with the shoes, James has managed to hang two measuring tapes from his neck, lay out three pre-knotted ties, and appear at Eggsy’s side with a notepad and pen.

“So the shoes,” he says as Eggsy kneels to lace them, “Personally I’m more of a brogue man, but Harry was very specific - _oxfords, not brogues_ \- and we’ll honour that. How do they feel.”

He’d say heaven, but that’s rather a bit over the top, so Eggsy settles for an ‘alright’.

“Alright? They should feel a lot better than that.” James sounds offended and Eggsy tries to backpedal fast.

“Well, they’re rather stiff, but very comfortable.”

“That’s more like it. Now, I’ll take some measurements. All you have to do is stand still or move when I tell you to. It’s really very simple.”

“Okay, I can do that.”

It actually ends up being simple indeed. Eggsy lifts his arms one moment, holds them out at another, then James is pinning something to him and furiously scribbling notes and numbers, holding colour swatches to his skin. Finally, he asks, “How do you normally knot your tie?”

Eggsy almost blurts ‘I don’t’, thinking of how the last time he’d worn one Roxy had sorted it out with a Wikihow tutorial in return for him buttoning up the row of pearls making up the back of her dress. What he ends up saying is: “I guess it’s just a normal knot.”

“Like this?” James asks and holds out one of the ties from the dresser.

“Yeah, but they tend to be more lopsided.”

“That’s merely a matter of form,” he says, “In principle the tie will be the same. That’s a Windsor knot by the way.”

On the wall, Eggsy notes a chart filled with differently knotted ties and a tutorial to purchasing the right tie. Although he wouldn’t know, he supposes there’s a difference between the right tie for a Windsor and an Eldredge. James holds two of the ties to his neck.

“Here try this one,” he says and offers him one. “Yes, that seems to be the correct length. Fantastic. We should be done here then. You can redress and we’ll fill out the rest of your order over in the shop. More comfortable chairs over there,” James says and winks, “I’ve got just a few quick questions for you and I’ll set you free after that.”

“Right,” Eggsy says and tries for a smile that matches James’.

“I’ll see you in a moment then,” James says and excuses himself from the room with his blazer and the notepad.

Alone again, Eggsy lets out a deep breath and meets his eyes again in the mirror. He can’t imagine Harry flouncing about like this, moving people’s arms around with rolled up sleeves and a steady run of chit chat for company. Somehow he always imagined tailors to be solemn and calm people, although he supposes versatile staff attracts a wider range of clientele. Oxfords _and_ brogues.

Glancing down at the shoes, he can definitely picture Harry. Eggsy slips them off and stuffs his feet back into his own trainers. Outside, James waits for him in an armchair with a large leather notepad, the numbers from the other one transferred into neat rows.

“Where do I put the shoes?” Eggsy asks, self conscious again.

James pays it no mind and mutters, “Just leave them somewhere over there. You’ll get a brand new pair with your suit, which we should discuss briefly, so we can best fulfill your wishes.”

“Yeah, um, I don’t really know much about suits,” Eggsy confesses and chuckles nervously.

“Here at Knights and co. we don’t force our clients into partaking in the science of dressing well against their will,” James says reassuringly, “If you trust me, I am more than happy to choose all the colours and fabrics for you, but I do need to know a bit about the application of the suit to your life. Harry noted it is for a special occasion, but that you’d need a multipurpose suit. The sort of thing that one can wear to any occasion. Is that right?”

James looks up at him expectantly and Eggsy stutters something in the affirmative. He tries to hide the way his heart is hammering like crazy at the thought of Harry thinking about all this: Harry considering the practicalities of his life while catering to his own selfish need for indulgence. Harry picking shoes, picking a tailor, probably picking a pair of socks for him without Eggsy knowing.Then there’s the whole thing about a ‘special occasion’. Eggsy hasn’t had one, and certainly hasn’t been one, in years, but here he is, having Harry’s words being paraphrased to make him out to be exactly that as though he’s the focus of someone else’s life.

The thought drives him mad; it dries up his mouth and fills his heart with heavy emotions that threatens to close up his throat and swallow his words. Luckily, James doesn’t ask him any more questions.

 

* * *

 

Roxy insists on taking him out to a club on Saturday after the show despite Eggsy begging for a quiet night in.

“Please. I’ll buy you wine, pizza, chocolate, anything. We’ll watch Buffy, pass out on the sofa. It’ll be like good old times,” he suggests even as they’re already on the final stretch approaching the line to the entrance.

“Not a chance,” Roxy tells him. “We’ve been doing nights in for however many weeks you’ve been seeing Harry. You’re like a smug married couple and you haven’t even had sex yet. Which, come to think of it, seems even more like a smug married couple thing. Anyway, I’m not having it. We’re going out, we’re getting hammered, and we’re going to enjoy it.”

“Roxy, neither of us _really_ wants to be here. I mean, it’s cold and you don’t even have a jacket.”

“Good thing it’s gonna be hot where we’re going,” she says with a false smile. “Besides, your sugar daddy’s only gone for a week.”

“For the last time, he’s not-”

“Quite frankly I don’t care what he is, Eggsy. Just please find an ounce of compassion for me in your floozy, little, love filled heart and give me the next couple of hours of your life. Can we do that, please?” She bats her eyes at him in the same shameless way she does at susceptible customers for a few extra quid and Eggsy has to admit it’s a very persuasive trick.

“Okay. I’ll make a fool of myself for one night and solemnly promise to throw anything attractive standing on two legs your way.”

Roxy beams at him. “Thank you. Now, shut up and follow me.”

He doesn’t know how, but Roxy pulls him right past the queue to a second entrance that they’re let right through with a simple flash of her trademark smirk. Eggsy decides he doesn’t want to know and makes a beeline for the bar while Roxy feasts her eyes on the night’s strobe dyed prey.

By the time he’s got himself two drinks - going back to that hell for anything other than shots simply isn’t an option - Eggsy finds Roxy already neatly seated in a VIP lounge. She waves him over and Eggsy goes with a sigh. He isn’t exactly keen on entertaining a crowd, but maybe they’ve got a good bottle of vodka up there to get a nice, long sip from.

“Well, well, if it isn’t good old Eggy,” he hears a familiar voice from the very corner of the sofa.

“Oh fuck off, Charlie,” Roxy pipes up next and Eggsy approaches the plush couch hesitantly. She whispers something to the girl next to him before turning to Eggsy. “I found some old friends, or rather the one old friend and some new ones. You know Charlie. That’s his mate Digby and these two are Sophie and Amelia.” She gestures at each person in turn with a drink he’s certain she didn’t have ten minutes ago.

“You know each other?” Sophie asks curiously, pointing between Eggsy and Charlie.

“Yeah. I stole his job,” Eggsy deadpans before Charlie can even think of a degrading comment.

“Eggsy’s really very good at what he does,” Roxy says placatingly. She turns to him with a stern look, but puts on her best honey voice. “Did you get me a drink?”

“Yeah, but the champagnes rank,” Eggsy says and squeezes himself onto the sofa next to her. Leaning close, he mutters “You sure we should hang with Charlie’s lot?”

“Oh, I’m sure. They’ve got bottle service. Plus, Charlie Hesketh is all over this girl and I very much intend to have her all over me.” She winks at him and returns to the conversation yelled over the music.

Eggsy catches her turning to Sophie to say: “Wow, to be frank, this really does taste rather shit.”

“You should get one of these instead,” she says, “They’re delicious.”

“Delicious indeed,” Eggsy mumbles into his drink. He is under the impression Roxy is looking for something else entirely and he can’t blame her. They’re all a smashing crowd.

On the opposite side of their little nook, Digby seems to be engrossed half in a chat and half in sucking Amelia’s face off, which leaves only Eggsy and Charlie unoccupied.

“So what you have you been up to lately, Egg boy?” Charlie drawls, obviously half drunk.

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “I’m sure it’s more productive than your poor attempts to impress girls with Daddy dearest’s money.” He takes satisfaction in the way Charlie’s jaw muscles twitch, fingers flattening against his glass as he takes a sip to calm himself down.

“At least I’m not sleeping with men for money,” Charlie says.

“You know how the business works, Charlie. That’s a lame attempt at a drag, even for you.”

“It’s not Kingsman I’m talking about. There’s been all sort of rumors going around, and I thought to myself, my that new kid on the scene sure sounds familiar.” Charlie smiles at him, leans forward to set his drink down and say, “I know you think you’re special. Dating an older man - handsome, rich, nice suit, and three hundred pound glasses to pull it all together - it must be exciting, if a little pathetic.”

This time it’s Eggsy losing his temper, fists clenching. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“No, but do you know anything about the people you’re with. Because they’re my lot. I’ve grown up with that type of men praying on pretty boys at garden parties you can’t even work at as a waiter. It’s a shame, really. I thought you could do better, but maybe that was a bit too optimistic, after all.”

“That’s it,” Eggsy shouts and lunges at Charlie over the table. The other boy is on his feet lightning fast, shoving back with a predatory grin. Behind them, someone mutters a quiet ‘woah’, but Eggsy is too busy wrangling around Charlie’s limbs in an attempt to punch him.

Roxy tries to hold him back, her fingers digging into his arms. “Eggsy, stop! What are you doing?”

From the edge of their sofa corner, someone shouts, “Telephone for Lady Sophie Montague-Herring,” and the commotion dies down momentarily. Eggsy has the good sense to back off for fear of being thrown out of the club.

Sophie, throwing both him and Roxy a look, slips past them. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be waiting ,” Roxy yells after her. When she turns to Charlie, her face screams seething rage. “What is your fucking problem?”

“He’s the one who hit me!” Charlie shouts and presses a napkin full of ice to his face.

“Huh, I wonder whose fault that is,” she snaps. Roxy glowers at him for good measure, still restraining Eggsy. She yanks her friend away from the group and into the corner of the VIP lounge. “Are you okay?”

Eggsy lets out a breath and shakes his head. “Fuck, I didn’t mean to go off like that, but he was saying things about Harry. How I’m being used and that it’s all about money and sex.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Roxy says and while her laugh does nothing to sooth him, the response is so quick Eggsy can’t doubt her sincerity. “Eggsy, you know that isn’t true. So what? He was talking about a tall, dark stranger in a suit. That could be anyone.”

“Name one person.”

“Okay, you know what I mean. Point is: I’ve met Harry several times and, while I don’t like talking about the Pretty Woman romance of the century, I have eyes. He’s fallen head over heels for you! Harry would never do anything to hurt you in any way. He’d never use you, or abuse you, or do whatever it is Charlie was suggesting. He took a blind shot at someone gorgeous taking interest in you. One hardly has to be a psychic to foretell _that_.”

“God, I’m so stupid.” Eggsy slumps back against a wall. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have let him rile me up.” He buries his face in his hands and groans, “And you know what the worst part is? I’m so in love with Harry and I just can’t wrap my head around the thought the feeling’s mutual. Look at me, five minutes with Charlie and I believe everything he says like a fool, because I think that’s what I deserve.”

“Eggsy-”

“No, please don’t let me drag you down,” he says and shakes her arms off himself. “You have a beautiful girl back there to woo. You’ve earned a night out, sweaty and dancing till your legs burn. It’s for me. I think I’m just gonna go home, before I get in another fight. Merlin would murder me.”

Roxy’s giggle makes him feel just a fraction better and he summons the courage to smile weakly at her. “Alright,” Roxy says, “But you have to text me tomorrow to let me know you’re okay.”

“I promise.”

“Pinky promise?” He nods and offers his little finger up for her. Roxy curls her own around his and give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Off you go. And don’t call before noon, if you value your life.”

“I’d never dare to interrupt a miserable hangover of yours,” Eggsy says and watches her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I labour under the assumption you'd need a longer tie to make an Eldredge knot than a Windsor, considering all the extra folds. Correct me, if I'm wrong on this.  
> 2\. The glasses Harry Hart is seen wearing in the movie (Cutler And Gross Square-Frame Tortoiseshell Acetate Optical Glasses, if anyone cares) come at a price of 295 quid at Mr Porter.  
> 3\. I have a serious obsession with making canon references in AUs, in case you haven't noticed yet. Hopefully that doesn't bother anyone.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was up writing this until 1:30am last night and I'm still screaming internally. Please excuse any remaining mistakes; I only had time for a very hasty proof read.

It is truly a miracle what a weekend can do for one’s mood. Eggsy discovers he’s particularly given to texting Harry for hours on end while sunken into a mess of his sheets with his acute misery forgotten and slowly soothed into oblivion by their endless banter. Eventually he’s forced to get up, and not only because Harry has a plane to catch.

Finding sixteen hours apart - give or take a few based on luck with subpar airport wi-fi - a seemingly endless span of time strikes even Eggsy as pathetic, despite him being shamelessly outed as a drunk cuddler at the club much to Merlin’s amusement and walking away from that intact. And, yes, he’d be incredibly embarrassed if anyone were to find out he’d set a timer for when Harry is supposed to touch ground, if it weren’t for the fact that it went off two hours ago and he still hasn’t heard a word.

He fidgets with his phone, wishing there was a way to ease the slowly tightening knot in the pit of his stomach. Even knowing Harry’s plane landed safely at Heathrow fifteen minutes ahead of schedule (he checked), even knowing nothing noteworthy has happened on the news all day (the telly’s been on since eight am), Eggsy frets. It could all be innocent enough, but he doesn’t feel like he has enough of a claim on Harry to ask what’s going on even if something were wrong.

After all, the man isn’t obligated to disclose his every move to Eggsy. Surely Harry would tell him if something was up. They hadn’t made any plans before his departure either. Eggsy is in the middle of typing an ‘ _ Are you okay?’  _ text against his better judgement, when there’s a knock on the door.

For a moment he’s convinced he’s hearing things, but he locks eyes with JB, who’s head has shot out from the sleepy little cocoon he was curled up in next to Eggsy. Then the doorbell sounds, he’s yelling, “Be right there!” and scrambling upright.

Through the peephole he spies only a sea of red, barely moving waves of something familiarly delicate. Opening the door may be a bad choice, but he does it anyway.

“Hello,” Harry Hart says on the other side of the threshold, lowering what is more roses than Eggsy has ever seen at once just enough to flash him a brilliant smile, “I have a delivery for Mr Unwin.”

“Oh, you cheeky _ shit _ .”

“Miss me much?” Harry’s smile grows even wider, almost impossibly so. “Sorry I’m running a bit late. I went home to shower; didn’t exactly fancy showing up on your doorstep as a post-flight zombie.”

“Last I heard, you wasn’t  s’posed to be on my doorstep at all,” Eggsy says, but the corner of his mouth twitches traitorously.

And Harry isn’t silly enough to pout, Eggsy knows that, but he still plays along, saying, “I’ll leave, if you want me to, but know you’re passing up on dinner.”

Harry dangles a knotted plastic bag with what looks like two huge styrofoam boxes in front of Eggsy, whose stomach makes a pitiful sound, giving the boy away. “Fine,” Eggsy sighs and finds himself with what seems like an entire bush of roses pressed into his arms as Harry slips past him.

Neither one taking any note of JB doing a jumpy little dance around them, Eggsy follows Harry into the kitchen. “So what’s this dinner you speak of?”

“Fish and chips from my local establishment kept by a certified Scotsman whose speech you can barely make a word out of. I wasn’t sure if you wanted vinegar, so I asked him to box it.”

“Vinegar?”

“For the chips.”

“What?”

“It’s a Scottish thing. Merlin swears by it. Have you really never been subjected to the culinary varieties of fish and chips?”

“Harry,” Eggsy says in a firm tone that gets Harry to stop pottering about for a moment and actually look at him, “I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. I didn’t even peg you up as someone who stoops low enough to eat fish and chips five minutes ago.”

Harry blinks, two plates still clasped in his hands. “I feel like like I should be offended. Eggsy, fish and chips is a dish that transcends class. Humanity will never not be a slave to fat and salt, and the British public has practically got a gene for an excessive attraction to battered fish and deep fried potato by now.”

Eggsy doesn’t know how, but Harry manages to say all of that in a single breath and with a straight face, adding to the comedic effect and Eggsy starts giggling helplessly by the last sentence.

“I really don’t understand what’s so funny.”

“Oh please, you’re doing this on purpose, aren’t ya?” Eggsy asks and this time Harry caves with a hint of a smirk.

“Are you just going to stand there or get those poor flowers a vase and some water?”

Eggsy stops smiling then, suddenly realising he has nothing to put this many flowers into. “I don’t think I actually have a vase. I mean, who’d ever be giving me flowers?” He frowns, then says, “Well, you, apparently.”

“Sometimes you really are hopeless,” Harry sighs fondly.

“Oi.”

“Give me the flowers and take the food instead,” he says, setting the plates down at last.

Since he has no better ideas, Eggsy hands over the flowers and lets Harry look into all his cabinets while he tries and fails to fit their enormous portions on his very average size IKEA plates. By the time he pays any real attention to Harry, he’s filling Eggsy’s largest pot with water.

“Now, it’s not the most aesthetically pleasing arrangement,” he says, dumping the flowers into the pot, “but it’ll do.”

“God, doesn’t this like break a billion rules about flower stuff?”

“Perhaps not quite a billion, although I think it should be said that it isn’t proper to cook your pasta in the same container you keep your roses in.”

“Fuck me then, I’ve been doing this all wrong,” Eggsy says and Harry doesn’t even get to the end of his ‘language, Eggsy’ remark before he bursts out laughing. “Put it on the table, yeah?”

Sat at the table not being able to see each other over the roses and instead only being faced by their own distorted reflections in the pot, Harry says, “Right, that’s it. This is just blasphemous.”

He moves the pot out of the way and Eggsy grins at him. “Can’t get enough of my face, huh?”

“Never. Especially when it’s finally in 3D again.”

Kicking Harry under the table, Eggsy has to admit it’s nice to have Harry back in person instead of the odd snapshots of a hand or half a thigh caught in a picture of one tropical miracle or another. He gets his foot caught between Harry’s, who snaps his legs together right above Eggsy’s ankle. “Go on, try the vinegar,” he says with a pleasant smile.

Suspicious, Eggsy dips the very edge of a single chip into the tub at the edge of his plate. “Eurgh, what is this?”

“Not a fan?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that. It just tastes weird, like sweet and sour basically but salty and sour instead. I- I don’t know. This is a whole new taste. Merlin really eats this for fun?”

“Oh, he’s been hooked on vinegar chips since he was in the womb,” Harry says and goes for the condiment himself.

“No wonder he’s so strange.”

They continue eating in comfortable silence, Eggsy making the occasional attempt at the vinegar with while Harry carefully dissects his fish with a fork and knife. Eggsy slips JB a sliver of fish under the table when Harry isn’t looking, though he’s sure Harry notices anyway. Finished with dinner they find themselves back in the kitchen.

Eggsy wipes the grease off his hands and asks, “What d’ya wanna do now?”

“Well, first thing’s first, the dishes, but after that maybe-”

“Harry, you’re not doin’ my dishes,” Eggsy cuts in, crossing his arms over his chest. “I haven’t seen you two weeks and you wanna come over to clean my house.”

“I like doing the dishes,” Harry insists.

“We’re still _ not  _ doin’ ‘em.”

“If  _ we _ aren’t doing them,” he says, closing in on Eggsy, “I have a proposition for you.”

“And that’s what exactly?”

Harry presses his lips first to Eggsy’s temple then his mouth, still tasting of vinegar and salt. “I was thinking,  _ I  _ could do the dishes, and  _ you _ ,” he grips Eggsy by the hips to hoist him onto the counter, “you could watch me from over here.”

Unimpressed, Eggsy hums an ‘uh-huh?’ and keeps his arms firmly crossed over his chest.

“Mh-hmm,” Harry hums back. He returns to roaming Eggsy’s skin, exploring his neck up along the artery all the way to the underside of Eggsy’s jaw. 

When Eggsy tilts his head back, it’s into Harry’s hand, laid over the very cupboard handle Eggsy would’ve happily knocked his skull into otherwise. Struck by the attention to detail Harry awards him with, the words that have been dangerously lingering on his lips all week seem to light on fire like they’ve been doused in gasoline, burning on his tongue, and he can only thank the fact that Harry’s tongue in his mouth unraveling his thoughts to a point where he can’t say a single coherent word. Feeling like he’s drowning in the intimacy, Eggsy clings onto Harry for dear life, fingers curling into his arms, his coat, his hair, until Eggsy barely knows where he is.

“Fuck,” he gasps and Harry chuckles into his collarbone with the sound reverberating in Eggsy’s chest. “I hate you.”

“I think you’ll find not  _ every  _ part of your body agrees with that statement,” Harry murmurs with his hands on Eggsy’s thighs and a lazy, self satisfied smile drawing across his face.

“I knew I missed you for a good reason,” Eggsy whispers and wraps his legs around Harry’s back.

“My irresistible charm?”

“I was thinking more along the lines of a sinner’s mouth and an arse blessed by God himself.”

“What objectification…”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Eggsy mutters, tugging Harry closer by his shirt.

He comes willingly, invading Eggsy’s mouth for a delightfully long moment before he pulls away again. “I was rather thinking we might take this off the counter.”

Eggsy hooks his index fingers into Harry’s tie to pull it loose. “Wasn’t exactly planning on moving,” he says and pulls the tie out of the way to get to Harry’s neck.

“No one said you’d have to.”

“You’re not gonna carry me like some sor- Oh shit, Harry!” Eggsy shouts, when he’s actually lifted off the counter and he automatically clasps his arms around Harry’s neck, “Jesus, put me down before you break your back.”

“I’ve got this,” he says with a reassuring smile, “Sofa or bed?” 

For a moment Eggsy doesn’t know what to say, then Harry hoists Eggsy upwards with a jolt, and his mind finally decides to function. “Bed.”

“As you wish,” Harry says and Eggsy buries his face in the crook of Harry’s neck.

He’s deposited on the edge of the mattress, sliding further up as Harry crawls along and Eggsy’s still got one leg wound around him, everything a tangle of touches and hushed words muttered over the rustle of the sheets. Maybe they’re still having a conversation, not that Eggsy can tell, hands working open the row of buttons on Harry’s shirt. One of Harry’s hands cards through his hair, the other slipping up the back of his shirt, or perhaps that’s his shirt slipping, after all, because it comes off over his head briefly snatching his hands from Harry’s body.

It’s Eggsy’s turn to maneuver limbs and push the suit jacket off Harry’s shoulders. When he finds a vest under the button down, he wants to scream. “Why are you wearing so many layers?”

“It’s a standard suit.”

“Fuck off.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I’m not wearing any pants.”

“Oh,” Eggsy says, spiraling to a halt before he flushes. Of course Harry would do something like this, he thinks, and vows to make him pay, hands roaming again. 

Harry undoes his cuffs while Eggsy practically rips the shirt off him. He’s on the belt buckle next, swift fingers used to working without him looking, although this time it it’s a two man show with no audience. Harry sucks a love bite into the junction of his neck and shoulder, sucking just a little too hard so that Eggsy accidentally yells, “Motherfucker!” and rips the button off his trousers. 

“That’s going to be a bitch to fix,” Harry mutters against the skin between Eggsy’s fourth and fifth rib.

“ _ Shut up _ .”

Harry bites him for that and Eggsy squirms, caught just on the border between pain and pleasure. Sensing Eggsy likes it, Harry does it again, and Eggsy is left wondering how he does that with the half a dozen brain cells that haven’t caved into the intoxicating chase for some kind of friction. He pushes at Harry’s trousers, his leg catching on the fabric and accidentally kicking Harry’s leg out from under him.

Eggsy’s heart almost stops when Harry nearly collapses, going down with a surprised ‘ _ oof _ ’. Catching himself on his elbows, Harry sinks just low enough for their chests to be pressed flush against one another and it’s almost like Harry is breathing into him.

“Well, someone’s eager,” Harry says, mouth right beneath his ear, and then he’s gone, pushing himself upright.

It’s the first time Eggsy’s seen him properly without his clothes on, toned muscles climbing up his arms, spreading out over his chest, shaping his body into landscape with highs and lows. Harry Hart, stark naked with a hard on that would make Eggsy blush if he weren’t directly responsible for it, is quite possibly the best he’s ever seen him look.

Harry takes his glasses off, gives him a dashing smile, and winks as he leans over to set them on the nightstand. And Eggsy, already half delirious with pure lust (and quite possibly having redirected any and all thought processes from his brain to his cock), can do nothing but snog the life out of him.

Eggsy does have enough sense to get out of his remaining clothes, stripping less than graciously with Harry’s mouth seeming to be everywhere on his body at once. He wriggles out far enough to reach for the nightstand drawer, Harry pressing butterfly kisses down his back as he goes.

“Talk about a world class arse,” Harry says.

“Do you ever shut up?” Eggsy asks, pressing the lube into his outstretched hand.

“Assuming you’d mind, which you don’t,” Harry says, “I can assure you you’re about to get very noisy yourself.”

“And what makes you think that?” Eggsy asks, gasping at the contradictory sensation of Harry’s  warm hands and the cool lube. He’s starting to see.

Harry returns his attention to sucking various marks into Eggsy’s skin, teeth marks and shallow bruises forming a trail downwards from Eggsy’s collarbone. He dips his tongue in Eggsy’s navel and works a second finger into him. Groaning, Eggsy makes the fatal mistake of glancing down at Harry giving him a mischievous grin as he licks a stripe up his inner thigh.

Eggsy shudders and lets out a quiet moan with his hands twisting into the sheets. He knows he looks a right mess by now, flushed halfway down his chest and moments away from involuntarily thrusting at anything to gain a little friction. He’s up to three digits now, and Harry pressing open mouthed kisses further up his thigh isn’t helping either, but Eggsy just tangles a hand in Harry’s gorgeous hair and lets himself get lost in whatever Harry throws at him.

When Harry lifts his head from his thigh and shifts in no uncertain terms, Eggsy tugs at his hair to keep his head in the air and Harry, the bastard, looks up at him for some kind of permission with his hand stilling completely for a moment. 

“No,” Eggsy breathes, “I’m not going to last this way.”

Harry gives him a curious look. Eggsy swallows his pride and whispers: “Please.”

Nodding, Harry pushes himself upright and up between Eggsy’s legs. He says, “Pillow,” and the sound is too loud and raspy in the room when Eggsy feel like his skin is about to ignite. Eggsy still manages to grasp around blindly for a pillow to throw at Harry on his knees at Eggsy’s feet.

“Come on,” Harry mutters and gets Eggsy to lift his hips. In one smooth motion, he pulls his fingers out of Eggsy’s arse and slides the pillow under his hips to position him.

For a moment Eggsy is thrown off balance by everything moving and then they’re standing completely still again, Eggsy starting to sweat, his disjointed breathing rustling in the room. Harry repositions himself and looks to Eggsy for another word, though this time he’s the one to speak, asking: “Okay?”

Eggsy nods, all his words having turned liquid long before his mouth went dry, not that it matters. With this, he trust Harry completely. He shuts his eyes and grabs two handfuls of the sheets, when Harry presses in in a single, steady move, still awarding him with as much attention as he did mapping out his body with his mouth, but lacking the languid haze of it.

When he opens his eyes, Harry is right there, staring back, waiting, always waiting for some kind of sign that he’s okay, and Eggsy is thoroughly overwhelmed.  _ Relax _ , he tells himself.  _ Relax _ , Harry’s hand on his hip whispers, his thumb curling around the bend of a bone. 

He closes his eyes again and thinks of the very first night he saw Harry sitting at the club as this mysteriously magnetising presence, as captivated by Eggsy as Eggsy was by him. Then, later, the warm glow of the back alley restaurant. Eggsy can still feel the golden warmth radiate through his memories, so that when Harry starts to move at last, he is caught in dozens of moments all at once with his senses carding through a million sensory experiences until he lands right back in his bedroom in Harry’s arms and drifting out of himself on a wave of tantalising pleasure.

“Oh God,” Eggsy gasps, a high pitched whine escaping his lips.

Harry, for all his talk, knows how to get down and ugly. He sets a near hypnotic pace, his thrusts gradually growing closer from long thrusts into short snaps of his hips that make Eggsy want to scream. Eggsy focuses on the short gasps of desperate breaths coming from Harry that sound like he’s concentrating so intensely on getting Eggsy off, he almost forgets to breathe at all.

_ Be good, for heaven’s sake _ , Eggsy thinks, and his next breath comes out as a low moan breaking into half a sob. He’s so close, practically teetering on the very edge, if only he could fall.

“Come on, now,” Harry bends down to whisper, clearly straining with the effort to keep up the pace, his voice wavering like he’s about to come undone himself. 

“Will you come for me, Eggsy?” Harry asks, and Eggsy does.

He sucks in a hurried breath and it all comes crashing down, everything collapsing in on itself, and all Eggsy can feel is his orgasm rippling through his body, gushing through every artery and vein as his vision blanks. 

When the world comes back into focus it’s in colours and spots and the sound of Harry coming with a bitten off moan. His fingers dig into Eggsy’s flesh, no doubt leaving a cluster of bruises all over his hipbone, but he’s too blissed out to give a damn, still buzzing with the last waves of his own release.

Eventually he’s breathing properly again, his heartbeat slowing gradually. Harry’s still kneeling at his feet and Eggsy props himself up on his elbows to look at him properly. “Are you gonna stay?” he asks, still a tad out of breath.

“I’d love to, if you’ll have me.”

It’s not at all the answer he expects, but Eggsy is really beginning to like the ways Harry Hart manages to surprise him time and time again. “Yeah. ‘Course,” he says and rolls over to one side of the bed to make room, “Get in here.”

Sighing with what Eggsy interprets as relief or perhaps contentment, Harry crawls up beside him, collapsing on the mattress gracelessly with a huff. “As much as I loved that shag,” he mumbles into the mattress, “I’m going to pass out now, because haven’t slept in twenty-four hours and I’m still seven time zones ahead of London.”

Overcome by a surge of affection, Eggsy merely presses a kiss to the cheek Harry isn’t lying on and turns off the light. In the dark, Harry still flails around for a short moment, finding Eggsy’s hand amid the sheets to hold onto before he drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was literally my first time writing smut, so hopefully it wasn't too terrible. I did only put off writing it for a whole twenty-five thousand words, but a girl's gotta do something for her rating. Anyway, I need to lie down for a bit now.
> 
> As per usual, comments, kudos, bookmarks, rec, etc. are highly appreciated. Your kind words often make my day :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm not really a fan of how this chapter turned out, but I'm kind of sick and life is getting in the way badly, so here we go: I've got a very important exam next week & am currently living through my very own bit of gay fan fiction, which is already distracting in itself. Please bear with me and apologies in advance.

Eggsy wakes to the sort of lazed out winter morning he’s only ever dreamed of, drifting briefly into consciousness to register Harry bathed in pink morning light before he’s out again. The second time around he’s woken by JB whining by the bed. Eggsy doesn’t know where the sound comes from at first, leaning back to look at Harry snoring quietly in his arms before he spots the pug.

“Honestly, you’re ridiculous, JB,” he mutters and untangles a hand from Harry’s bed head to pat the bed. JB whines only louder at that - still uncertain whether he dares to make the leap or not - and Eggsy makes excited faces at him in encouragement. “Come on, JB, come on. Who’s a good boy? Come on now,” he coaxes and the pug finally makes the leap.

Beside him, Harry mumbles: “Why are you making such a racket?”

“‘Cause my dog’s an idiot,” Eggsy says when JB proceeds to slot himself in the dip of the blanket between them.

Harry lifts his head long enough to glance at the pug before he buries it right back in the crook of Eggsy’s neck. Eggsy isn’t sure how they’ve ended up like this during the night: legs tangled together and him holding Harry for a change. Harry nuzzles closer, though Eggsy knows he’s only pretending to fall asleep. It serves him just as well. He might as well shower first, because the sheets are a horrid mess and he’s starting to be overheated with Harry covering half his body in a sluggish embrace.

“Mmh, where are you going?” Harry asks when Eggsy tries to move, his arms tightening only further around Eggsy. He turns and yanks Eggsy towards him.

“Cut it out, Harry,” Eggsy says, though he doesn’t manage to sound one bit annoyed even as he’s shoving at Harry.

“You don’t really want to leave me.”

Eggsy gets a hold of Harry’s hands and presses him into the mattress by the wrists. “Yeah, I absolutely do, you lazy arse.”

“Come on,” Harry says, snaking a leg around Eggsy’s, “give me one good reason I ought to let such a beautiful creature go.”

“For one, all this jostling is abusin’ my bladder-” He doesn’t get any further than that when his stomach decides to announce it’s gone unfed for too long and Harry makes a face at him. “Then there’s that.”

“Ugh, you young things with your efficient metabolisms,” he sighs and Eggsy slips from his grasp. JB promptly decides to climb onto Harry’s stomach while he’s lying flat, which Harry doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest, both of them up for a cuddle apparently. Eggsy shakes his head fondly at the two of them, climbing out of bed stark naked to give Harry some incentive to stay awake.

It does more than that. Eggsy hears the sound of JB scuttling across the floor not long after he turns on the shower, a definite sign that the bed is empty, because JB doesn’t ever pass up a warm body. Sure enough, Harry appears in the bathroom moments later.

“I just realised I promised to pop into work this afternoon,” he says and yawns. “And my suit’s in absolute ruins.”

Eggsy laughs and says, “Maybe we’ll focus on gettin’ ya properly awake.” He hands Harry an unused toothbrush from the stash under his sink and at his questioning look, says: “I’ve made enough ten pm runs to Tesco ‘cause Dais’ or Rox’ or Mum didn’t have a toothbrush to have learned my lesson.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Harry mumbles out of a foaming mouth, toothpaste slipping down his chin.

Eggsy considers saying something, but decides against it. If Harry wants to be ridiculous, that’s his own choice. Eggsy, meanwhile, gets in the shower.

“Are you still alive?” he asks when Harry’s been standing still for what seems like minutes.

Harry mumbles something unintelligible and spits out toothpaste to ask, “If I get in there, will you wash my hair?”

“Yes,” Eggsy says without hesitation even though it’s perhaps one of the silliest things anyone’s ever asked him to do.

He’s fond of Harry in a wholly new way, because he’s so much more than a distant man in a thousand pound suit, even if it’s taken a while to learn that. For starters, he’s a horrible morning person. Harry’s almost kind enough to kill bringing Eggsy flowers like he’s someone to romance and if Eggsy is honest knows now he loves Harry, although that isn’t what he tels Harry now.

Instead, he quietly trades places with him to let Harry stand under the shower before he says says: “You still have toothpaste on your face.”

“Ugh, bloody mornings,” Harry mutters and wipes at his chin. “I could die on the spot.”

“Yeah, that’s no reason to touch me with your toothpasty hands,” Eggsy argues and bats at him.

“Can I touch you with my toothpasty mouth instead?”

“Watch it, or the only thing you’ll be touching is yourself.”

“How very sad,” Harry complains and Eggsy rolls his eyes.

He shoves Harry under the water to shut him up and looks for a bottle of shampoo. Between leftover bottles from when Roxy lived on his couch for two weeks between flats and the hideously scented fake strawberry washes Daisy insists on, he loses his own half empty bottle more often than he’d like to admit. Not to mention Roxy’s shampoo is genuinely nicer.

He decides on that for Harry and pulls him out from under the water to squirt shampoo straight onto his dripping, matted hair and rubs it into a frothy, watery mess that flows down all over the both of them. It’s a painfully intimate act, washing it all back out of Harry’s hair, the strands swirling around Eggsy’s hands under the water. Harry lets his own wander to come to rest at his hips. For a moment they stand like that, completely still, save for the water running along Harry’s arms to flow down Eggsy’s legs and gurgle as it gets swallowed up in the ground.

_ I love you _ , he thinks with ardent desperation. Then his stomach makes itself known again and Harry smiles at him; Eggsy can tell even with their foreheads tipped together and his eyes closed.

“Alright, we really need to get some food into you.”

“Is unnecessary concern for my well being the only thing that can wake you up?” Eggsy asks.

“It’s not unnecessary when your body clearly agrees with me, and you do make a rather compelling motivator. Besides, I’m not actually horrible in the mornings,” Harry insists and Eggsy only hums. “I think I’m simply getting too old for this cross continental flying.”

Eggsy fumbles around with the conditioner while Harry finds a bottle of body wash. “I certainly wouldn’t mind having you around more, but then who’s gonna send me pictures of tropical destinations?”

“Maybe we can trade places. I’m fairly certain I still have a few routines Merlin would accept.”

“Oh, you know, I wouldn’t mind a private demonstration of that.”

“Well, you better be a very good boy for Christmas and hope Santa brings you something nice.”

“Pervert,” Eggsy says.

He leaves Harry soaking in the warmth of the shower while he dries himself off, wiping a streak into the fogged up mirror. By the time Harry shuts the water off, Eggsy’s found a second towel for him.

“I’ve set the clothes you leant me on the dresser,” he tells Harry when he comes out of the bathroom and Eggsy is pulling a shirt over his head, “They’re clean and probably fit you better than me.”

“How convenient that everything I lend you comes in handy sooner or later,” Harry says.

“Also a convenient insurance I’ll see you again.”

“Wouldn’t you otherwise?” he asks with a self assured smirk.

“Who knows.”

“I’ll have to buy more leather gloves then.”

“Do that,” Eggsy says and stalks off to the kitchen.

The roses are still there on the table in the gigantic pot, looking as radiant as they did when Harry brought them over. Eggsy takes a few moments to smell them, sucking in a whole lungful of Harry’s affection before he goes to pull three boxes of cereal and a full carton of milk out on the counter.

Harry appears behind him, brushing past Eggsy with a frown. “Is this really what you eat for breakfast?” He picks up a pack of Kellogg’s Frosties. “How do you exist on sugar and corn.”

“There’s the healthy whole grain, fiber version Merlin insisted on,” Eggsy points out. “I might have orange juice.”

“Right, well this won’t do. What’s in your fridge?”

Eggsy sighs, but checks anyway. “Three eggs, half a tetra of orange juice, moldy jam, and a near empty jar of nutella.”

“And I’m fairly certain I saw a pack of crumpets somewhere yesterday. See, that’ll make a perfectly adequate breakfast.”

“If you wanna cook, I ain’t stoppin’ ya, but I already poured myself a bowl of cereal and I’m gonna eat it too,” Eggsy says. He pours the milk into his bowl to kill any argument Harry might’ve had in mind because no one leaves cereal to go soggy.

Harry seems happy enough slamming cupboard doors in search of a frying pan and the crumpets, Eggsy leaning on the counter munching the first half of his breakfast. It’s all horribly domestic and he never wants it to end. Harry cooking, a little sleep ridden in sweatpants Eggsy is convinced have to be tailored to fit like that, is quite possibly the best sight he could imagine for nine am on a Tuesday morning.

“What are you looking at?” Harry asks with his eyes still fixed on the pan.

“Your arse obviously. It should be criminalized for being a distraction.”

“I think you have a problem, dear sir,” Harry says in a serious tone, although he makes no move to hide his smirk. “At least make yourself useful and put the kettle on.”

“Yes, Harry.” Eggsy glides past him and presses a kiss to his hairline, one hand going for a grope. Harry looks near offended, but Eggsy only shrugs at him innocently and winks as he moves over to make tea.

 

* * *

He shows up to work early that day, Harry taking a cab off the doorstep in the other direction. Roxy is late and Merlin’s reworking the liquor bottles on the shelves like it’s the most important task in the world. Hauling around tables and armchairs, Eggsy thinks of how strange it is they can turn a room coated in black plywood panels and a couple velvet curtains into a class act with a little bit of lighting. During the day, with the lights turned up fully and the floor empty, Kingsman has that awry feeling of a bar five minutes after opening, a single lunch guest at the bar and two hungover drunkards sipping on their first pints somewhere in a corner. Only, they have Roxy tapping the wiring of the new sound system to a wall and Merlin behind the bar instead of actual guests.

They eat late lunch on the counter of the bar sometime in the afternoon. It’s just meal deals between bouts of laundry, but Eggsy loves the familiarity of it: playing cards with one hand as they’re shoving sandwiches into their mouths with the other.

“I raise you three peanuts,” he tells Roxy in all seriousness because two man poker is a grown up game even with silly stakes like this.

She rolls three peanuts into the little pot between them, leveling him with an A-class menacing stare as she tosses one into her mouth. “Try me.”

“Haven’t I told the two of you to stop playing with the tabletop snacks?” Merlin grumbles at two of them from the storage room doorway.

Roxy is about to argue no one ever eats them, when they’re all interrupted by a voice in the entrance. “Really, you used to be more fun in my time.“

“Jesus, you’re like the plague,” Merlin sighs, but Harry only smiles in return.

For all the tempered antagonism between them, Eggsy nearly falls off his stool in surprise. “Harry, what’re you doing here?”

“Well, I went into the shop and turns out there’s a special delivery to run,” he says and holds up a suit bag. “It’s really a gorgeous thing.”

“You ordered a proper suit?” Roxy asks in disbelief.

“Only because Harry insisted,” Eggsy says to her, then to Harry: “It was mostly James doing the choosing.”

“He chose well. You’ll look fantastic,” Harry insists. He hands Eggsy the bag and scoops the peanuts off the counter to eat them much to Merlin’s annoyance and Roxy’s amusement.

“So, should I prepare for a wedding or what’s going on?” she asks and Eggsy snorts.

“Dinner, more like.”

“Am I supposed to be offended he wouldn’t marry me?” Harry asks no one in particular and receives a slap on the arm from Eggsy.

“Wedding or no wedding, all three of you stop eating company products.”

“Merlin, we all know misery loves company.” Harry slaps twenty quid on the counter. “Pour the kids a drink and buy yourself a new bag of peanuts,  _ dear _ .”

“Right, fucking get out,” Merlin says and Roxy is the first to burst out laughing, Eggsy following suit.

“Looks like someone’s in a fit,” Harry mutters, pretending Merlin can’t hear him even though they’re having a stare off only two feet apart. He earns another laugh from Roxy and an eye roll from Eggsy, who tugs at him to stop fooling around. “Fine, I’ll go. Pick you up on Sunday at seven?”

Eggsy nods and lets himself be briefly snogged by a perfectly dressed gentleman. Across him, Roxy mutters the word ‘gross’ with too much affection and for an instance Eggsy is delirious with happiness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reasons mentioned at the beginning of this chapter plus my having to organise my graduation party and attend about six others, the next chapter is going to be late. It's kind of an important part of the story and long on top of that, so I need to make sure it turns out right. I'm expecting to update in four to five weeks. Thank you for your patience.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's amazing what you can do when the UCAS app is down for a few days. Longer chapter for the longer wait. Enjoy!

Apart from the tie, Eggsy gets into the suit on his own without incident. He finds his arse looks spectacular in the mirror, though he’s not entirely convinced about going commando for the sake of the suit as suggested per instruction. Everything about the suit is surprising: the feel of the silken lining on his bare skin, the way the jacket practically licks at his figure, the discrete glimmer of the cufflinks at his wrists. Then there’s the tie. He’s got a WikiHow page open on tying a proper, more formal knot than the one his mum had taught him one rainy afternoon before his cousin’s wedding a decade ago. Attempt number four is less crooked, but still too short and Eggsy sighs.

He’s about to complain to JB when there’s a knock on the front door and the pug goes flying out of the room barking his head of. “Oi, shut it,” Eggsy tells his dog as he hurries after him to open the door. Unsurprisingly, Harry stands on the other side with a dripping umbrella in one hand.

“Oh good, you’re up. I was rather worried I would have to drag you out of bed.”

Eggsy huffs, “Yeah, yeah, I know I’m late, but let’s get one thing straight; you’re the one practically married to the mattress. All I’ve got troublin’ me is this stupid tie. It keeps knotting crooked.”

Harry arches an eyebrow. “This is what kept you? You should have just come down.” He holds out his hand. “Let me.”

Eggsy hands him the tie and lets himself be manhandled into higher society. Harry tips his chin up, pops his collar and loops the tie around his neck. His fingers press into Eggsy’s skin for short moments at a time, slivers of fabric brushing him here and there, and then Harry’s done, saying, “There we go,” angling the tie right and flipping the collar of his shirt back down. “What a handsome young man I’ve got,” Harry murmurs and presses a kiss to the corner of Eggsy’s mouth.

He’s invariably silly like that and Eggsy pushes at him gently to get going, because the last thing he wants is to be late for Terridge’s. Harry takes hold of his hand somewhere between the front door and the street, drawing away briefly to open the umbrella above them fro the walk to the taxi. Eggsy isn’t entirely sure what he’s being maneuvered into through car doors politely held open and an innocent hand placed over his on the backseat of the cab, but he’s more than willing to go anywhere Harry is.

 

* * *

 

The restaurant is exactly as intimidatingly posh as Eggsy feared it would be. First thing through the door, someone says, “Good evening, sirs,” with two menus clasped under their arm and Harry’s umbrella gone in an instant. The sheer fluidity of it makes Eggsy dizzy and he clings to Harry’s arm. Even in his beautiful, less beautifully priced suit and groomed to perfection, he feels out of place in the way he always does with Harry. Somehow Harry still always remains right.

They’re shown to a table toward the back of the restaurant in a corner by the window and Eggsy notes the tables are just far enough from the pane for them to spectate the world beyond without being on display themselves. He wonders if this is what the cut out bits in movies of people dining at the Ritz are like: the chink of metal on porcelain, murmured laughter as people's’ smiling, translucent reflections dance in the windows like a trick of the mind, the lights from within the restaurant glittering among the people walking by with their briefcases and their trilbys tipped forward to fend off the aggressive sleet raining down on them.

“Sir?” their host says with a firm touch to his voice and Eggsy snaps out of his own thoughts. The man is holding out a chair for him while Harry gives him a curious look from across the table.

Eggsy clears his throat and takes a seat, saying, “Thank you,” in the same polite way he’s seen his mother do for years whenever she was embarrassed but too proud to let the flush in her cheeks get her down. The host hands them each a leather bound menu and pours two glasses of water before he disappears with a fraction of a bow. Eggsy relaxes into his seat and he notes they’re sitting in firm armchairs instead of  formal high backed, ornately carved hardwood chair.

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, eyeing the menu nonchalantly. He glances up briefly, says, “You seemed a bit vacant there.”

“Yeah, it’s just this is all new to me. It looks and feels a lot like… an old circus: simple and yet full of mystery. In town for one night and one night only,” Eggsy says and wonders if he sounds crazy.

“It does indeed, but I’ve always liked the air of someone performing tricks in the shadows while you follow the spotlights. There’s a charm to it.”

“We’re only missin’ the white gloves now,” Eggsy says, cracks a smile at Harry’s chuckle.

“By the way,” Harry says, sobering up, “A little something about expensive suits. You open them to sit down and rebutton them.”

Eggsy stares at him blankly for a moment, then sets his menu down and does as he’s been told. “You lot are insane sometimes with all your rules.”

“It makes for smoother lines. Why get a suit tailored, if you don’t have it fit perfectly at all times?”

“Why not live with a few lines? And more importantly, what’s the point in making weird rules about how to eat bleedin’ peas?”

“Are you referring to the practise of mashing them against the back of one’s fork?”

“Yeah, that. I mean, they’re difficult to scoop up and it ain’t exactly graceful, but Christ. That’s a bit extreme,” Eggsy says with a bemused expression. Harry only smiles at him fondly like he’s realising all sorts of things, realigning his perception of the world and all the peas in it because of something Eggsy’s done.

Eggsy clears his throat and opens the menu, noting the pages are made of thick paper held to the back of it by a red ribbon down the centre. Even something so subtle seems to be worlds away from the worn plastic pocket menus he’s ordered from for a lifetime, dried ketchup stains stuck to the pages and the faint scent of beer clinging to the malforming cardboard covers. Eggsy supposes a smudged page here would simply be replaced without the blink of an eye, little wine tainted mistakes soaked up in pristine white napkins that blend in with the white tablecloths, the careless meals of the rich vetted and removed by a miraculous laundry lady. Harry looks perfectly at ease while Eggsy’s never been so uncomfortable.

“Is the french section worth considerin’ or can I skip that based on a lack of linguistic qualifications?” Eggsy asks.

Harry lifts his gaze from the menu and examines Eggsy’s face and the barely disguised defensiveness in it. “Skip it,” he says, “Do you know why I chose this restaurant?”

“What’s that got to-”

“Just answer me.”

“No,” Eggsy admits warily. Harry lowers his menu by a fraction, looks like he’s about to sigh.

“I thought so. This particular place at this particular time is something I think you would enjoy, if you let yourself. Now, remember when I told you nothing could ever beat fish and chips?”

Harry pauses like he actually wants an answer and so Eggsy says, “Yes.” He knows he’s missed something crucial and his hands are sweating, the absorbent pages of the menu sticking to his hands.

“Good, because that statement still stands. Nothing ever beats the common foods: the crab cakes and the onion rings, the vinegar chips and the apple cider. But you can upscale it.” Harry pulls himself up straight in the seat. He must’ve had his legs crosses, Eggsy realises, because he shifts from one side to the other and leans forward with his eyes boring into Eggsy like he’s really considering the man in front of him. “London has many places where you could spend half your rent on dinner and champagne, but I didn’t bring you here for the francophiles’ beloved à la carte; I brought you here for the season special.”

Eggsy flips through the pages, scanning the headers, until he reaches number ten. “Street gastro,” he says. The selection ranges from a pulled pork burger with pickled red onions and gorgonzola cheese chips to deconstructed veal kebab to a haggis club sandwich with a side of assorted salads. “Harry?” He only says the one word but what he asks is, “Why are you doing this?”

“All I want is to give you a taste of what are  _ supposedly _ the finer things in life, simply because I can. I did not and do not ever mean for that to come at the cost of your comfort zone,” Harry says, genuinely sorry.

“That ain’t the problem. I don’t mind you treating me to things. Three dozen flower shop roses is a fun thing and something someone like me, someone like my mum, has only ever seen in movies. And the suit is really very nice, just gorgeous, but it ain’t me. Nice cars and silk ties ain’t my idea of romance. All I want is you,” Eggsy says, “and ironically enough I feel like your money’s gettin’ in the way there.”

Harry looks to be scolded and relieved at once, a wobbly smile rising towards the end of Eggsy’s words. “Well, look at that: I’m a complete berk.”

“No, you’re a posh twat with no one to blow all your cash on except me and I’d hardly call that a crime. For the record: I wouldn’t mind a bottle of filthily expensive alcohol, ever, and I think JB’s been eyein’ a diamond collar in the doggie catalog.”

Harry laughs and it’s the sort of abrupt, loud sound that is utterly out of place at this particular establishment, drawing long looks of disapproval from neighbouring tables. Eggsy only smirks at Harry, shakes his head, and returns to his menu positively glowing.

At that moment, whether by coincidence or careful observation, a waitress materialises at their table with a purposefully faint smile. “Are you ready to order?”  

“I am, if you are,” Eggsy says to Harry, who nods in response. “I’ll be havin’ the pulled pork burger and… d’you happen to serve honey beer?”

“Yes, we do, sir.”

“Great, I’ll have one of those then.”

She makes a note and turns to Harry expectantly. “I’ll take the haggis club sandwich with additional cheese fries, a glass of whatever wine your sommelier recommends, and a honey beer sounds delightful to me as well.”

“Very well, sir. Your wine will be right up. Enjoy your evening.” This time her smile is a little brighter and Eggsy watches her hurry off towards a man carrying a bottle of wine.

Under the table, Harry stretches out his legs, their calves brushing up against one another. “So, Merlin tells me you are choreographing new performances. What is that going to be all about?”

“If I tell you all about that, you’ll have to tell me exactly how much I’ll be making in tips,” Eggsy replies with a grin. “Do we have a deal?”

Harry nods.

 

* * *

 

He ends up drinking half of Harry’s wine, or rather half of the bottle they get after mutually agreeing it’s definitely worth getting drunk on. The food is delightful and Eggsy marvels at how masterfully it’s prepared. He sees their plates from across the room, steaming in the waitress’ hands, but miraculously they’ve cooled just enough by the time she slides them onto the table, simply glowing warm in the overhead lights, though Eggsy is sure he could coax white curls of steam out of the flawless bun if he were to crack its surface. How it’s remained intact while being skewered is a mystery he forgets about at his first hesitant bite.

“Oh, this is worth not only a lot of money, but a lot of sin,” he says, wiping a drop of barbeque sauce from the corner of his mouth. If he could turn his wildest dreams into food, this would be it, the sweetness of near translucent onions tantalising under the marinade of the meat. Swallowing his first mouthful, Eggsy asks, “Can you lust after a burger? ‘Cause I’m getting hot and heavy here.”

Harry only laughs at him, absorbed in a tiny heap of coleslaw. It’s one of the rare dinners in Eggsy’s life that is about the food more than the company, something entirely different from him and his mates crammed into a booth at Pizza Hut, wolfing down dinner after a bruising rugby practise. So this is what people with time and money to; they indulge in hedonistic pleasures.

Afterwards, when the waitress asks them if she can interest them in dessert, Harry shoots him a look and Eggsy nods before his stomach can protest that it’s already been stuffed to the brim, that his senses have been assaulted with enough marvel for one night. “We’ll get one raspberry and lavender  crème brûlée and one chocolate lava cake with a glass of anise liqueur. Two spoons each, please,” Harry says before he is even handed a menu.

“You pretentious wanker,” Eggsy says once the waitress is gone.

“She seemed to approve.” Harry swills his wine and takes a long sip, playing his part perfectly.

“She isn’t the one you’re trying to impress.”

“And here I thought you already liked me.”

“Mmh, I know, I’m a terrible piece of work.”

“Speaking of work...”

Eggsy’s smile falters at that. “Don’t tell me you’re going away again?”

“No, although I will be Belgium for a few days towards the end of next week. But that wasn’t my point. What I was trying to say is that you have tomorrow off from work and my first appointment isn’t until ten, so you could come over if you want to. I’m sure I have expensive liquor lying around somewhere.”

“As much as I’d love to get blackout drunk and have sex in your gorgeous bed, I’ve got a dog at home and I don’t think he’s a fan of this plan.”

Harry seems to consider that. “We could make a detour,” he suggests, “We’ll get JB and some pyjamas your size, a change of clothes.”

“Why not stay at mine?”

“Because I know your fridge is an abomination and I’d have to get up early to go home and get to work on time. Think of it this way: you come with me and you won’t have to change your sheets.”

“Oh, that is a good argument.” Eggsy licks his lips, considers the matter for a few more moments. “Alright. I’m in.”

“Splendid,” Harry says, beaming at him just as their dessert arrives, smelling divine. He hands Eggsy a spoon and gives him the pleasure of the first spoonful of each dish, near black chocolate seeping out of the lava cake and the surface of the crème brûlée cracking like the first sheet of ice over a wintry pond.

 

* * *

 

For all the ill advised club nights he’s pulled with Roxy, Eggsy isn’t exactly in the habit of stumbling through his front door giggling madly. “Shit,” he mutters and tries shushing Harry as he almost trips over JB fumbling for the light switch. Harry, ever so helpful, closes the door and finds the light switch for him, bathing the hallway and the entrances of the rooms beyond with blinding light.

“Would you look at that, a miracle,” he says with a wide grin and Eggsy rolls his eyes.

“Not that your competence in even the most mundane aspects of life isn’t useful,” Eggsy says and is cut off by Harry backing him up against a wall.

“But what?” he asks in a low purr and Eggsy can positively feel his pupils bursting into saucers, shot with pleasure, though he doesn’t say a word.

Instead he pulls Harry in for a bruising kiss. He still tastes of anise liqueur and chocolate, sweet and warm with a tinge alcohol. Eggsy pushes him away regretfully in favour of air. “Fuck, how d’ya manage to be so frustratingly hot?”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ll assume that is a compliment. Maybe I should print that on my business card,” he muses. “Local tailor for too tight trousers.”

“Oi, you have a boyfriend,” Eggsy says, laughing. Harry’s cheeks flush and Eggsy briefly wonders if it’s because of what he said. Deciding not to worry about it at the moment, he says, “Let’s get a move on. Ya ain’t gettin’ any younger.” He swoops down to pick up JB and deposits him in Harry’s arms. “Dog, collar.”

After that, it’s quick progression. Eggsy fumbles around for a shirt and some pants, throws a pair of jeans into a duffel bag and stuffs in a sweater for good measure. He ushers Harry out of the door, because it’s getting late and the alcohol is wearing off rather unpleasantly fast. They’re laughing again in the elevator, each offering matching stifled smiles at an elderly woman who joins them on the second floor, and for once Eggsy doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks about what exactly it is he does with Harry Hart.

By the time they reach Harry’s they aren’t as hysterical anymore, lulled into something softer and far more tiring by the gentle tossing and turning of traffic on the exquisite leather in the back of a Kingsman company cab. The sky has gone dark hours ago and the air is starting to be crisp with the night as Harry finds a few notes to hand the cabbie.

“It’s much bigger than I remember,” Eggsy says, staring up at the balcony in awe as Harry unlocks the front door for them.

The house smells stale somehow, like it hasn’t properly been lived in, Eggsy notes, though when the lights go on it’s as cosy at it was the first time around. JB certainly seems to like it, making a dash for it across the floor as soon as Harry sets him down.

Harry says, “Welcome to my kingdom,” and Eggsy wraps his arms around his neck.

They stand there for a while like that, simply embracing in the hall of an uncaring house. These are the moments Eggsy treasures the most, the feeling of the entire world vanishing as Harry presses his lips to Eggsy’s hair and breathes him in deeply.

“We should get you out of that suit,” Harry says eventually.

“Yeah, I bet you’d like that,” Eggsy murmurs into his neck and the chuckles leaves him all on its own.

“I was thinking more in the way of getting you in a bathtub.”

“You mean the humongous one in the upstairs bath?” Eggsy asks with his eyes lighting up. He has to pull back to ask properly, baffled hope forming on his brow.

Harry nods. “That’s what I had in mind, unless you’d rather do something else.”

“Fuck no. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I definitely will blow you in bed at some point, but I ain’t passin’ up a bath in that monstrosity.”

“Sometimes I fail understand you,” Harry says with a fond shake of his head and pushes Eggsy gently toward the stairs. He runs up two steps at a time and Harry follows suit.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Harry’s world seems to be full of wonders, Eggsy thinks as he watches glints of golden light swirling among the honey whiskey held in a crystalline glass carved into hundreds of diamonds and triangles whose edges press into the pads of Eggsy’s fingers. The bath is exquisite. For one, he can stretch his legs out to their full length in the water.

Harry declined his invitation to join in, choosing instead to sit on the counter in his pants, shirt uncuffed sans tie with the whole bottle of whatever Eggsy’s drinking in one hand and a glass in the other. Eggsy can’t honestly say he minds, their voices echoing off the walls and his laughter seeming to reverberate forever.

“You know, I’m never leavin’ this tub,” he says and takes another sip of whisky.

“You’ll become pruny.”

“True, but I’ve got all of tomorrow off to be as pruny as I choose.”

Harry sighs, “I wish I still had Mondays off. Great for any official business. Banks are bloody nightmare to navigate with nine to five job.”

“Is that Mondays off deal a Kingsman thing?” Eggsy asks. He’s neither fond of nor opposed to Mondays, since he spends most of them lounging bed for half the day, getting up only to stockup on groceries at Tesco’s in the quiet afternoon hours.

“It’s more a Merlin thing,” Harry says, “He doesn’t believe in Mondays. When we were younger he used to come to work hungover every Monday, because we wouldn’t get off until late on Saturday and he couldn’t be bothered to go out then, which meant he’d find himself a girl to drink with on Sundays. Picnics at the park, dinner with liberal wine, sometimes he’d come over to mine with a bottle of vodka when he’d fallen out with his girlfriend.”

“Merlin don’t seem like the type to be interested in anyone though.”

“I think he’s just gotten lazy. I never quite did manage to figure him out. He does one night stands as well as monogamy, was even engaged once, although she was the one to propose.”

Eggsy perks up. “No! He’s never told us this.”

“Well, I imagine he wouldn’t. It was a long time ago. She was American, they were together for quite a while. As far as I know he really liked her, but not enough to move across the pond and that was that then. They still see each other whenever she’s here for business and I think he’s still fond of her, and I can see why. His rebound from that particular lady was horrendous though. He had to change his locks twice and he spent a fair few nights on my downstairs couch. I don’t think he’s tried anything too serious after that.”

“This is so wild. I just thought he hated people,” Eggsy says.

“Oh, he does,” Harry says and knocks back his glass of whisky. He pours himself another.

Eggsy asks, “What were you doin’ during all of this?”

“Becoming a tailor’s apprentice. Our clientele is global, so I was travelling a lot. The only real relationship I had was the one to my very loyal dog. Of course I slept with people every now and then. I was Merlin’s go to wingman and sometimes in the process it played out alright for me too. Though I suppose I never saw the point in investing time I didn’t have into someone who wasn’t exceptional, intriguing in their own right.”

He shifts his gaze from the bottom of his glass to Eggsy, who asks, “Why now then? Why me? What’s changed?”

“Nothing has changed. You simply were worthwhile, caught my attention.”

“Harry, I’m a twenty-four-year-old stripper with less money to my name than your monogrammed towels are worth.”

“So? I’m a middle-aged, posh prick, who sews trousers for a living and drinks whisky on his bathroom counter. You’re enigmatic, you like me, and I like you.” He frowns, as though his thought process is derailed, “Did you want that topped up by the way?”

Eggsy nods, has the last of his current glass, and holds it out for a refill. Harry hops off the counter, pants and bottle and glass and all. He pours Eggsy a careful measure in a careless gesture and sits down on the toilet cover.

“Cheers,” Eggsy says and Harry humors him with the tilt of his glass in Eggsy’s direction.

“I’ve been thinking,” Harry says, and Eggsy freezes momentarily at how serious he sounds, glass pressed to his lips.

“And?”

Harry says: “I just want you to know that I love you.”

Eggsy almost blurts, “Sorry, what?” but catches himself with his mouth open and no sound coming out. He fancies he can feel his heart leap all the way up his throat and it’s entirely impulse he’s acting on when leans forward and tugs Harry close by the front of his shirt to kiss him, water sloshing over the edge of the tub and spilling over Harry’s socks.

“I love you too,” Eggsy breathes when he lets go, “have for a long time already.”

“You do? We’ve really gotten ourselves into something serious then,” Harry says and glances down at the wet spot down the front of his shirt.

“So it seems,” Eggsy says. He doesn’t have the time to think of anything else to say before JB goes berserk somewhere in the house, barking incessantly at one thing or another before he howls or rather does his best imitation of a howl.

Harry glances at him. “Maybe I ought to go see what that’s all about, lest I have ghosts in the house.”

He peels off his wet socks, gives Eggsy a peck on the cheek, and deposits both the whisky and his glass on the counter before he goes off, yelling, “I’m coming, I’m coming,” in the general direction of the dog. JB only howls again, the murmur of Harry’s voice and the sound of his footsteps swallowed in the turns of the hallway. Eggsy meditates on his drink, wondering how his life has gone from takeout pizza on a second hand couch with a suspicious stain on the backside of one cushion to a lavender bath and expensive liquor.

The house quiets down and he runs his fingers through the cooling bath water. Maybe things will work out alright for a change. He takes in a long breath and slips under the surface of the water, warm and safe with the light overhead distorting into long, wavering lines. Maybe he won’t end up breaking his heart over this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for everyone's patience. Next update will be in two weeks as per schedule.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am soft trash. Don't look at me.

Though Eggsy himself has never been one for big houses, he’s rather fond of the way the morning light filters through the windows and out through the open doorways in Harry’s upstair hallway. It’s eight am and he isn’t supposed to be up yet, but sometimes a drink too many disturbs his sleep and he finds himself wandering with a hand brushing along the wall and JB trotting along at his feet.

Harry’s house feels like something straight out of a magazine. Save for his own, the four bedrooms are peacefully untouched, fluffed pillows no one’s ever slept on lying everywhere. In the sitting room there’s a clearly worn armchair and a stiff sofa. There are corners Harry has clearly lived in - handmade collections of slightly crooked butterflies in glass caskets hung on the walls, unevenly distributed coats hanging by the front door, disheveled clusters of cognac and scotch bottles sitting in an antique liquor cabinet - but ultimately large portions of the house are untouched.

Eggsy’s never lived anywhere with space to spare like this. When he was little and his father was in the service they’d had a comfortable flat, space for him and his mum and all the knick knacks in the kitchen, but that was different. With Dean and the baby things were more cramped. He still had his own room, but there were always people around, laundry drying next to Daisy’s crib in the living room.

In his own flat now, he has more space both emotionally and physically. It’s bare compared to Harry’s suburban decorative style though, minimalist even, but more lived in. Eggsy doesn’t own unnecessary furniture and his walls may be bare white apart from that one IKEA painting over the sofa, but he spends time at home and it shows.

He turns at the end of the hallway, fingers resting on the doorframe of what must be Harry’s study. It’s a far cry from the soft yellows downstairs and the cream of the bedroom walls, crowding maroon collapsing in on on itself over a single oak desk. What’s even more bizarre is the collection of tabloid covers tacked to the back wall. Eggsy steps inside and studies them with interest.

They’re seemingly random in topic and dating even though he gets the sense they’ve been carefully selected and arranged. There’s a speaker system set up against the wall, an empty martini glass and two CD cases discarded on a stereo column like Harry’s forgotten what he was doing halfway through a night in with a good drink. The leather armchair in one corner still has a sloping dent in it from the last time someone’s sat in it. Oddly enough, Eggsy finds the study the most charming room in the house.

“Why are you sneaking about at this time of the morning?” Harry asks from the doorway, startling Eggsy, who turns on his heel with a surprised sound.

“I wasn’t sneaking around. I just didn’t wanna wake ya. Besides, there’s loads to see here.”

“Is that so?” He comes up behind Eggsy and wraps his arms around his bare chest. Harry noses at his hairline and asks, “Found anything incriminating yet?”

“Well, I haven’t discovered any mummified corpses in the cupboards  _ yet _ , if that’s what you’re askin’, ‘though I would like to know what this is all about,” Eggsy says, tilting his head toward the wall that’s been turned into an artwork of sorts.

“It’s a memorial wall to mark appointments with particularly notable clients, all stolen off the waiting room magazines no less,” he murmurs.

“Who came in on Charles and Diana’s wedding day?” Eggsy asks, incredulous.

“No one. We went in to fix something on their wedding day,” Harry says, “And it went off beautifully too or you’d have a major dress malfunction stuck in the corner there.”

“If you ain’t a hero in your own respect, I don’t know who is.”

“The most important jobs have always been done best behind the sidelines,” Harry says and tightens his hold on Eggsy.

 

* * *

 

He ends up staying the day, even though he’d planned on cleaning his flat today. There’s something to be said about just how irresistible Harry Hart is stood on the doorstep of his posh house in his full three piece suit and morose coat, asking, “Am I going to get to come home to you?”

_ A beggar in love _ , Eggsy will give him that, and so he had nodded and pushed Harry out the door, because he was going to be late if they kept snogging in the hall. It wasn’t just Harry either. In the end, Eggsy is a lazy arse whose definition of a perfect day is crashing back into Harry’s bed face down to rifle through the dog eared novels on his nightstand.

He has crackers and wine for lunch, propped up on the sofa with JB dozing at his feet, which is how Harry finds him when he comes home, most of the way through Pride and Prejudice.

“Well, hello there,” he murmurs, “Is this what you’ve been doing all day?”

Eggsy looks up from his book, pulls the fraying bound bookmark down to mark the page. “I got through that one mystery novel on your nightstand earlier.”

“Don’t tell me who the murderer is,” Harry says with a smirk.

“You’re a clever one. I’m sure you can figure it out well before the grand reveal.”

“Was it any good at least?”

Eggsy shrugs and makes a noncommittal face. “Not a personal favourite or anythin’.”

“What about this one?” Harry comes to sit on the armrest behind Eggsy and glances down at the page he’s on. Lady Catherine, he notes.

“I like it a lot,” Eggsy says simply. “I think we did one of Austen’s works in school once, but I wasn’t a reading sort of bloke back then.” He goes quiet, somewhat sad for the misguided hid he used to be, but mostly repressing a flare of anger at the circumstances of his early life.

Harry seems to sense his discomfort, because he pushes at Eggsy to slip onto the seat behind him and ask, “When did you learn to like reading then?”

“In the marines. We was out on these long shifts, and then I’d fall dead asleep, which is how the days passed. And when we weren’t out on the deck, there was always blokes around playing cards, but each of us only had so many cigs and 20p coins on ‘em, so it’d get real boring on a day off. Nothin’ but the sea to stare at all day. I liked the routine, but those days were really doin’ me head in, until one day my bunk mate offered me a western he’d just finished. In that kind of place you don’t exactly go refusin’ anything, and then it surprised me and I’ve been picking things up ever since.”

Harry squeezes his hands and Eggsy offers him a small smile. “I’m so proud of you for not letting life rot away the sweet parts of you,” Harry says, “I know things haven’t been easy for you.”

“No, they really haven’t,” Eggsy agrees. He thinks of Dean, the occasional black eye on his mum, the day he’d quit gymnastics and angrily stared at his own bruises in the mirror. “We can’t all be born upper crust.”

“It’s not all it’s made out to be.”

“Well, no, I’m sure it ain’t. It seems pretty shite, to be honest, but at least society ain’t out to systematically abuse you. You weren’t one of those sad, neglected children in a mansion the size of a palace, were you?”

Harry shakes his head, a smile small curving at his mouth. “No, my family was the sort that believed in carefully measured out parcels of affection. I had dinner with my parents and sometimes my dad took me fishing on the weekends, but most times I just folded paper airplanes in my room instead of doing homework. In fact, the only reason I ever came to like reading was because I wasn’t allowed in the library, so I made it my life’s mission to steal one book after another and absorb them in the name of rebellion.”

Eggsy giggles at the image, but asks seriously: “Why did you insist on making your life so hard?”

“Honestly? I don’t have a clue. I think maybe all people have this inbred notion that life ought to be difficult, that something about living ought to be inherently complicated. So, when things are easy for those fortunate enough to have it easy, we make our own problems. It’s like the Real Housewives applied to Eton.”

“Create your own drama,” Eggsy echoes. “Petty.”

“Kids don’t know any better, and the adults they grow into aren’t any different either. But sometimes the things we do get us in weird places like Kingsman. I would likely never have met you if that wasn’t the case,” Harry says and cards a hand through Eggsy’s hair.

Eggsy leans his head back against Harry’s chest and into the touch. “So, what you’re saying is you had to royally fuck up and I had to wise up a bit to get us in the same place despite our differences?”

“Meet me halfway and all that.”

“Can we fetch more wine for dinner from your end?” Eggsy asks, “It’s much nicer, really. The one thing you aristocrats got right.” He doesn’t even have to look at Harry to know he’s grinning.

“Excellent proposal.”

“But first, I wanna finish this novel. Mr Darcy owes me and Lizzy a proposal, and I mean the marriage sort.”

“You’ve warmed up to him then?”

“Yeah. He’s a posh shit, sure, but he tries. It might not be what people like Lady Catherine or Caroline Bingley think is right, but the entirety of the upper gentry can have a crywank after their weddin'. At least he doesn’t have to marry his cousin.”

Eggsy pulls a face and Harry laughs. “My god, this is exactly why I love you.”

He flushes, still not used to the words tumbling out that easily, though they burrow right into his heart. Eggsy pushes himself further up against Harry’s chest until their heads are level and Harry can rest his chin on Eggsy’s shoulder to read along through the last missteps of Elizabeth Bennet’s story.

 

* * *

 

Watching Harry cook is definitely making it’s way up the list of Eggsy’s favourite things to do. He loiters by the fridge with the bottle of wine, handing over one thing or another and switching between radio stations. It’s the exact companionable laziness Eggsy loves, swaying to the music on his own while Harry slices up a box of mushrooms. He finds a station playing old punk rock, oddly out of tune with their lives and still perfectly nostalgic for a Monday night.

Three hummed tunes in, Harry asks, “Is this the sort of music you listen to?” in a carefully blank tone.

“Yeah,” Eggsy says evasively. He knows it isn’t exactly pleasant compared to Harry’s impressive jazz collection two rooms over, and he’s used to getting yelled at by Dean to tone it down back when he was still living at home.

But Harry doesn’t seem to be annoyed, or if he is, he hides it well. Eggsy watches him finish cutting the last of the vegetables and push them into a sizzling pan, wipe his hands on the kitchen towel, and lean over to turn the volume up a notch.

“Care to dance with me?”

That takes Eggsy by surprise and he shifts uneasily on his feet, saying, “This ain’t really dancin’ music.” Not in the way Harry thinks anyway.

“Nonsense, anything is ‘dancing music’ if you dance to it.” He offers Eggsy his hand and an earnest, pleading look he can’t refuse.

Eggsy abandons his wine and takes Harry’s hand, lets himself be pulled onto the open floor of the kitchen to mimic something half resembling dancing. He knows some basics of the ballroom dances he assumes Harry’s spent a lifetime perfecting and his sense of rhythm isn’t half bad, so he manages not to trip all over Harry, though he isn’t entirely sure what they’re doing. They wing it in their own unique way, and he’s having fun doing it too. His left hand rests on Harry’s bicep instead of his shoulder or waist, because Eggsy doesn’t really know what the rules for two blokes dancing are, but then he supposes there can’t be many when it comes to a silly kitchen stumble like this.

“We probably look weird as hell,” he tells Harry, smiling so widely it almost hurts.

“Good thing we don’t have an audience then,” he says, “although I should probably keep an eye on the food.”

Eggsy lets him detangle to attend to the stove, one of Harry’s hands still holding onto Eggsy like he doesn’t want to leave. There’s a beat between two songs, only the sound of the food frying in the air, and then something Eggsy recognises all too well as the Arctic Monkeys’  _ Bigger Boys and Stolen Sweethearts _ .

“Oh my god, I haven’t heard this song in years,” he says and turns the volume up a little more. Harry regards him curiously as he tries to remember the first few words before they’re back in the centre of the kitchen.

“Some sort of specific emotional attachment, I presume,” Harry says.

“Definitely. I listened to this on my walkman one New Year’s Eve. I used to be smitten with this girl one grade up. Must’ve been like fourteen at the time. I’d kinda thought of askin’ her out for New Year’s when she started dating this college bloke who’d bum her cigs over the fence at recess. I was so fuckin’ heartbroken, I sat on the roof all night freezing my arse off while my friends were out fuckin’ about with illegal fireworks. I thought that was the end of my world for a while,” Eggsy says and shakes his head.

In hindsight it’s amusing, especially when he’s dancing to the same song a decade later in his boyfriend’s kitchen, over the moon and cheeks flushed with the heat of the wine flowing through his blood. Harry’s trying out one of the more casual ballroom dances on his own at a distance, which shouldn’t work, but somehow still does. That’s just what they’re like, Eggsy decides: a conundrum without conflict.

He reaches for his wine glass and twirls with Harry just for the sake of it, dizzy by the time there’s an intermission on the radio. It occurs to Eggsy he’d happily do this forever.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s something strange about coming home and turning all the lights on, like he’s a stranger turning in his own flat. Eggsy feels punch drunk, though he’s tipsy at best, worn out and woozy. He’s lightheaded and yet his body seems to anchor him to the parlour wall with all its leaden weight. Watching JB skitter across the floor completely elated at being home, he wonders if this is what it feels like to be lovesick.

He’s never been lovesick before. In fact, he isn’t sure he’s ever properly been in love. The closest he’s come was six years ago with the girl he was dating before he joined up in the marines. She’d been sweet, the best thing that had ever come out of their neighbourhood and Eggsy still thinks of her sometimes, hopes she is doing better now than they each were at the time. After that he’s only had one night stands - not much else one could engage in his his part of town. A short-lived affair with a bloke he met at a club, who didn’t end up being too into the idea of his job, so Eggsy had dumped him.

He had a life to live, after all, something to climb out of and do better. He had a job that paid for his rent away from the likes of Dean, new friends that came with it and the few that remained from his own corner of the world, and for a long time that was all that mattered. He wasn’t looking for anything, but there Harry was anyway, captivating. There he has been ever since.

Eggsy pushes himself off the wall and takes off his coat, shrugging off the cold of winter as he hangs it up with his scarf and Harry’s gloves. He’s had them for so long they’re starting to be his. A wholly new kind of permanence.

“What are we doin’ with our lives, JB?”

He plops down on the sofa and thinks of how he was supposed to call his mum today. It’s too late for that now.

Not much to do other than contemplate the strange turns his life is taking. Eggsy really ought to go to bed, but he’s perfectly comfortable lounging on the sofa with his head resting on his arm. The sleeves of his sweater smell like Harry’s cologne from slow dancing in the kitchen. Eggsy drifts off in the sillage, lonely and loved at once.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t wake up hungover, but Eggsy shows up to work twenty minutes late with three cups of coffee, damp hair, and a crick in his neck, all much to Merlin’s dismay.

“And may I ask where you have been?”

“Enjoying my day off a bit too much,” Eggsy says and offers him a cup as an apology for his tardiness.

Roxy appears from the storage room with a crate of tonic water looking like she’s been through hell under her concealer. “Oh god, Is that coffee? You’re a bloody saint, Eggsy.”

“Good mornin’ to you too. What the fuck’s happened to ya?”

“I was courted into a night at Claridge’s by none other than  _ Lady _ Montague-Herring,” she says, “Let’s just say she and her friends can drink a girl under the table. I’m fairly certain I kissed the bell boy on a dare.” She pulls a face and chugs her coffee like her life depends on it. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re twenty-three,” Merlin argues.

“My point exactly. Now, where do you want this?” she asks, holding up the box.

Merlin points to a corner behind the bar. He takes a tentative sip of his own coffee, muttering, “Sometimes you young people astound me.”

Roxy snorts behind him and Eggsy says, “Thanks to Harry we know a thing or two ‘bout your escapades, ancient and recent, so don’t try pullin’ that card on us.”

“Careful, careful running your mouth like that, Eggsy.”

Roxy butts in with a, “Can you two stop squabbling for one day?” and pushes at Eggsy to get cleaning. “We all get it.  _ You  _ are deliriously in love and  _ you  _ have a charming shit for a best friend,” she points to each of them in turn, “and both those descriptors just happen to apply to the same person. But, if you don’t mind getting your shit together, we’ve got work to do. The club doesn’t run itself and we still have practise later.”

Eggsy glances at Merlin, half expecting him to be enraged at her for trying to tear him a new one. He only nods in agreement, swallows, and Eggsy fancies it’s almost pride that’s conveyed in his flicker of expression.

“All right, get this place scrubbed by three thirty and I’ll let you have extended lunch, but we’re not slacking off on training.”

“Yes, Merlin,” they echo in unison, both rolling their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. From what little moves I remember from ballroom dancing last year, some bits and pieces should be applicable to that particular song. Either that or I'm even more musically clueless than I thought, but hey, I got through several performances okay, so who knows.  
> 2\. Unlike Terridge's, Claridge's is an actual place in London. It's considered a luxury hotel (according to the internet, because I live in the arse end of the world & wouldn't know) and seems like the kind of place Roxy would like.
> 
> As for the next update, unfortunately I'll be shifting to a triweekly updating schedule for at least the next two chapters. I've got university applications and admissions exams and such to hurtle through and it's not exactly a walk in the park.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a bit on the short side. Apologies for that, but after writing close to 20K between this update and the last, my brain is a bit fried. Any remaining mistakes are due to late night proofreading.

There is a certain nonchalance he’s developed towards his own body and those of others as a result of his employment at Kingsman, but Eggsy hadn’t quite envisioned it playing out in a scenario where he’s plucking Roxy’s brows for the last show preceding Christmas. It’s not uncommon for the acts of the night to help each other out. They’re certainly used to flouncing about backstage in the nude, the women curling each other’s hair and the guys oiling one another up properly. This still carries an odd intimacy, Eggsy breathing directly into Roxy’s face with immense concentration as he plucks a stray hair from just above a nerve and she flinches, muttering, “Motherf-”

“You were saying?” Eggsy asks with a triumphant grin, holding the hair up to the light to inspect its root with disgusted satisfaction.

“Stop looking at it that way,” Roxy says and smacks his arm away from the mirror. Her eyes are watering on their own accord and she’s blinking rapidly to clear her vision.

“I’ve seen you do this many times, Rox. Don’t even lie.”

“Yes, but it’s _my_ hair, which makes it not creepy by default. Could you focus, please?”

Eggsy hums in agreement, wipes the hair off the edge of the tweezers, and leans back in to find a new one. “Not to rain on your parade, but you’ve clearly gone through these recently, so why are we doing this?”

Roxy sighs and flinches at the next sensitive hair torn from her. “Okay, fine. You’ve got me. Just please stop ripping my face off.”

She sighs with relief as he moves away and abandons the tweezers on the dressing table. Eggsy pulls up a stool and sits down giving her his best serious look, which only serves to make her smile involuntarily.

“Christ, you’re such a twat sometimes,” she scoffs, “I might not tell you at all.”

It’s an empty threat and they both know it, but mild antagonism is the heart and soul of every friendship. Eggsy does his best impression of an apologetic pout, the one that would always make his mum let him buy a few sweets when he was younger. It works the same on Roxy, though she rolls her eyes with a long suffering sigh before she gets to it.

“Sophie invited me out on new year’s to a party with some of her friends.”

“Okay. And that’s bad ‘cause?”

“I had sort of planned on inviting her over for dinner earlier on in the day, but we’re not exclusive exactly, so I can’t really get her on a romantic one-on-one. Thing is, I’m not fond of her friends, you know, Charlie and Co.. It’s fine so long as we’re clubbing, but I’m not inviting that wanker and his lot to my flat, so I need to assemble a party of my own before I invite her. I’ve already bribed Merlin - don’t ask how - but I still need at least two more people, so I was wondering if you and Harry could do me a huge favour?”

She looks so desperate, he’d agree off the bat if he could make that sort of commitment. All him and Harry had agreed on for the holidays is not to splurge on presents and that Eggsy would only be free after he came home from his mum’s on boxing day. “I’ll run it by him,” Eggsy promises. “And if he can’t make it, I’ll come save you anyway. I bet you we can get Merlin well smashed.”

“Oh god, if even half of the stuff Harry’s told you about him is true, I’m keeping the liquor far from him.”

“Probably for the best, although it’d make for some A class blackmail material.”

“That is a point. You want to hurry up though, because if you’re late for your cue, you might not live long enough to see it.”

“Shit, yeah.”

Eggsy hurries off to get changed and Roxy shakes her head, reaching for the body glitter.

 

* * *

 

 

Christmas comes and goes without incident. Eggsy spends it cooped up on his mum’s sofa in, what constitutes, a bad approximation of a pillow fort built by Daisy and himself. It’s a small space, but cosy in the way he remembers home being before his dad died and Dean came along. That had made lots of things go arseways, Christmas included, but without him Daisy wouldn’t exist and Eggsy can’t bear the thought when she’s so excited about getting a story book from him.

Of course she can’t read yet, but that doesn’t stop her from trying or Eggsy from snickering under his blanket. He sends Harry a video of her loose interpretation of Rapunzel based on the pictures, Daisy speaking solemnly despite the gift wrap she’s decided to wear on her head, while Eggsy shakes the camera with his laughter. He eats for three days in his loosest trousers and reads Daisy every story in the new book, twice.

By the time he gets home he’s ready to pop the buttons off all his jeans and he still has half a fridge of leftovers to eat. So naturally, when Harry calls from the M1 complaining about his empty fridge, asking Eggsy out for dinner, he suggests leftovers at his instead, and finds Harry on his doorstep an hour later.

“Christ, I’ve been duly reminded of why I never drive,” Harry complains first thing through the door, red cheeked and out of breath from taking the stairs up to Eggsy’s flat, “Traffic is a mess, which isn’t a surprise. Who has the nerve to stay on the road when you’ve got three children screaming in the backseat? And don’t get me started on trying to find a parking spot. This is supposed to be London at its emptiest.”

Eggsy takes his coat and makes some sympathetic sound as he hangs it up for Harry.

“But what am I complaining about, when I have you here now?” Harry says next and hugs him from behind.

“Truly a gift,” Eggsy murmurs and turns to kiss him properly. “How was your Christmas?”

“Same as always. Slightly lumpy gravy and a year’s worth of gossip. You wouldn’t believe the number of scandals one can fit in a small English countryside town. It’s worrying on the one hand, on the other hand mother doesn’t lack a hobby.”

“So you won’t be retiring into the countryside then?” Eggsy asks, half curious and half mocking, because the thought of living outside of London is completely alien to him.

“No, it’s not for me. That is why I left in the first place, although I wouldn’t be opposed to moving to a smaller city than London.”

“You’ve given it thought then?”

“At my age, you have to. I don’t take it you have plans in that respect.”

Eggsy shakes his head. They find themselves in the kitchen again, Harry opening lids of Tupperware boxes at random as Eggsy leans on a counter. He doesn’t imagine he’ll be hungry in years. How Harry manages to have an appetite at all eludes him, but Eggsy isn’t going to complain.

Instead he thinks about what he’d like to do when he retires, and says, “I wouldn’t be opposed to rottin’ away in some huge mansion for a few years though. It’s a sort of once in a lifetime opportunity and all that. I could retire really early and we could make lemonade and play tennis.”

“Is that what you think my family does?” Harry asks, amused.

“I haven’t got a clue, mate.”

“Well, I’ll likely have the whole estate to run in a few years. Mum isn’t in the best shape anymore and she really ought to move.”

“What about your dad?” Eggsy asks.

Harry blinks at him and says, “He’s been dead for a long time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be. It wasn’t a childhood tragedy or anything. I was thirty five, he was overweight and a heavy drinker the way all of them are, and that was it. He had a heart attack one day and was too stubborn to go to hospital. You know what my mother said when I came to the funeral? ‘Harry, didn’t I always tell you one day your father ignoring my advice would cost him his life? Well, here we are.’”

“Jesus.” Eggsy grimaces in sympathy and finds Harry a plate.

“Of course she didn’t put that in the eulogy. That was actually rather touching, all stoic with just the right amount of water in her eyes. A world class performance as granny would have called it.”

“I’d called that fucked up.”

Harry smiles to himself. “It really is, but it’s the sweetest gesture I’ve ever seen. I found various drafts of a eulogy for my mother in my father’s belongings. I’m fairly certain she too had been writing hers for the better part of the four decades they were married.”

“That’s mental.”

“More like foresight, I think. Both my grandfathers died at a young age, one in a hunting accident and the other in the war, so I think my parents were well cautioned about how short life can be. In a way, it was a safeguard against tragedy.”

When Harry puts it like that, Eggsy has to agree it isn’t a bad idea. He can’t imagine doing the same, writing a eulogy for someone - Harry - when they’re undoubtedly full of life. But then, aren’t many right before they die? He thinks of his father and all the other marines still out there, wonders if his own mum would have dealt better with his dad dying if she had been open to the possibility in the slightest. It had, after all, always been a possibility.

“Are you having any?” Harry asks, running a spoonful of gravy over his ham.

“Nah, don’t think I will. Are you staying the night? We could watch a film.”

Harry thinks about it and nods. “I think I would like that.” He pops his plate in the microwave and re-stacks the Tupperware in the fridge.

 

* * *

 

 

They end up watching a Monty Python rerun on telly, Eggsy with his feet in Harry’s lap and JB snorting from time to time on his chest. He rubs his fingers between the pug’s ears, thinking JB has become far too spoiled with affection in Daisy’s hands. But Eggsy has a soft spot for small creatures and he can’t really hold it against either of them. He wonders if Harry feels a bit like that about him, full of protective warmth, because it’s certainly the impression Eggsy has gotten.

It’s a nice change to the harsh treatment he’s received for the greater part of his life, especially in his formative years, and Eggsy is grateful his and Harry’s lives intersected where they did. Had it been earlier, Eggsy might not have had the courage to pursue it, and, had it been later, he might have been too cynical to believe in anything concrete beyond short lived, sex based relationships. He gave up on romance when he enlisted in the marines, never seeing himself writing love letters in his bunk and not really imagining a future beyond that. Of course, that endeavour hadn’t lasted long, but his opinion of romance remained.

Now he thinks he’d write Harry a thousand letters if that is what it took, even if his handwriting is barely legible and he hasn’t mailed anything in a decade. The most wondrous thing is, no matter how far Harry seems to go - whether it’s his house or bloody Laos - he always comes back, and that is something Eggsy’s definitely never been able to count on before.

“That’s not a very Monty Python smile,” Harry says and Eggsy blinks at him.

“No,” he agrees, glancing at the telly, “It’s more a you smile.”

“I get a smile of my own on a face as beautiful as yours? What do I owe this honour to?”

Eggsy breaks out in a much wider smile, trying not to laugh.

“Oh, another,” Harry says and leans over for closer inspection, teasing “Is that one mine too? Because I like it very much.”

“Stop it! You’re scaring JB.” It’s a feeble excuse, particularly when he’s laughing.

“You’re the one disturbing his cosmos. How dare you have fun while he’s trying to nap on you?”

Eggsy kicks at Harry, which only ends with him having a foot hijacked in Harry’s firm grip. “Now, now. There’s no need to resort to violence,” Harry says, unbearably smug as he shifts out from under Eggsy to hover above him.

JB seems distressed by the sudden appearance of a  _ person _ above him and whines. “You’re torturing the poor sod,” Eggsy complains to Harry, who sits up, bracketing Eggsy’s thighs instead.

“Well, I wouldn’t want that. Especially since I could be torturing you instead, in pleasant ways of course.”

“Of course. Speaking of torture...”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him. “Why is this a tangent?”

“Because I may be asking you to spend new year’s at Roxy’s with me, her sort-of-girlfriend, and Merlin,” Eggsy offers. “It’s just dinner, so we would be there for three hours at the most and you can do anything with me for the night beyond that.”

Harry considers the proposition. “I’m not opposed exactly, but may I ask why this gathering is taking place?”

“Uh, it’s one of those complicated relationship things.”

“Is it safe to assume I’d find the reasoning ridiculous and would only be agreeing to come to please you?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m happy to go.”

“You’re a treasure,” Eggsy says and pulls him down for a kiss in spite of JB’s protest.

“Mmh, I may also have the tiniest urge to get one over Merlin. He can’t resist a drinking challenge and I’m assuming he hasn’t agreed to this out of goodwill.”

“Nah, Merlin nice? Never. ‘Though I don’t know what Roxy’s promised him.”

Harry hums in thought. “Maybe we could get him to play strip poker.”

“It ain’t that sort of party,” Eggsy says, “You, Merlin, me, and two girls in their twenties. Someone might get the wrong impression.”

“People get the wrong impression a lot, like when they look at us, for instance.”

“And that never bothers you?” Eggsy asks earnestly. Entertaining the idea of dating a bloke had been terrifying enough where he used to live, but someone like Harry on top of that. He may still be the most wonderful thing Eggsy is ever going to come across.

Harry simply says: “No, not really. People can look at us and we’ll just at each other.”

“This is why I love you.”

“How about this?” Harry asks and snogs him senseless. Eggsy can’t say he’s aware much of the telly after that, or anything else apart from Harry’s hands. If this is going insane, he’s happy to lose all the world to keep Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't want to do the whole opening Christmas presents shenanigans, so I opted to skip out on that. My headcanon is they gave each other books. If anyone has any suggestions as to what those might be, I'd love to hear them and maybe use them as reference in a later chapter. As always, thank you for reading :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer update for a change. As the last chapter implied, Roxy Morton/Sophie Montague-Herring has become a sort of side pairing in this fic. It won't be tagged, since it's not really the focus of this and I don't want to clog up searches for rare F/F pairings with something that won't satisfy the category.

“Oh, I had no idea you were bringing JB!” Roxy exclaims first thing through the door and scoops the dog out of Eggsy’s arms.

“I see how it is," Eggsy says with a mock pout.

“Don’t be an idiot."

She’s off in her apron with the dog and the kitchen towel leaving Eggsy and Harry to fend for themselves with the hangers in the open closet. Eggsy counts two pairs of shoes out of the ordinary; they’re the last ones to arrive, then. Indeed, he finds Merlin and Sophie in the living room on opposite pieces of furniture, each nursing a cocktail.

They make a strange congregation: Sophie barefoot in a thin slip dress, Merlin looking to all the world like he’s out for a night at the bar, Harry in a full suit woefully out of place walking around in red socks. Roxy refuses to make it awkward.

“My _friend_ Sophie,” she says by way of introduction to the new arrivals and then to Sophie, “you already know Eggsy.” Roxy pushes him down onto the sofa next to her.

“Is that your dog?” Sophie asks immediately.

Eggsy glances at JB in Roxy’s arms, dozing off satisfied. “Yeah.”

“I’ve always wanted a pug, but our family keeps large dogs.” She says it with an air of resigned detachment. “Hunting in the country with a pug isn’t ideal, so I ended up with a poodle.”

“A poodle?”

“They’re gun dogs. Oldest working breed in the world,” Roxy fills in helpfully. She deposits JB between Sophie and Eggsy before she turns to Harry. “And I suppose I’m allowed to call you Eggsy’s partner by now.”

“By all means,” Harry says and Eggsy lets out a breath he wasn't aware of holding. Harry adds, “We brought wine,” proffering the bottle he’s clung to on the stairs.

Roxy takes the bottle from him, and, inspecting the label, she says: “You really shouldn’t have. This is far too good; We’ll all get silly before dessert.”

Harry dons his most charming smile. “My kind of party.”

For a moment Eggsy’s afraid of her reply, but Roxy is cut short by a timer going off in the kitchen. She excuses herself with a sigh and leaves her four mismatched guests to fend for themselves.

“Cocktail?” Sophie asks.

“Yes please. What is this?”

“Apricot martini. Doesn’t look very convincing in a jug like this, I know.”

“I’ll vouch for it,” Merlin says from his armchair.

She pours them each a champagne flute in the custom of parties held in badly stocked city flats and leans back in her seat, scratching JB’s ear as she turns to Eggsy and says, “I didn’t get to talk to you last time at the club. You were gone in such a hurry.”

“I wasn’t really in the mood.”

“I don’t blame you. Charlie was frightfully rude. I don’t know what came over him.”

Eggsy knows exactly what that was, has known since the first time they met, though he supposes Sophie hasn’t had the misfortune of being objected to his blatant elitism. “Never mind that.”

“He wasn’t possibly talking about Harry, was he?”

Eggsy glances at Harry, who gives him a curious look at the mention of his name, still chatting away with Merlin. “Same man, I’m afraid.” He never did tell Harry about that and he doubts he ever will. Charlie would never want to understand and Eggsy had no more qualms about Harry.

Sophie says, “Well, then he certainly is bonkers.” She sounds like it’s a topic that’s been up for debate for some time and has finally found its last nail in the coffin.

Eggsy didn't expect that from her. He expects the next question even less; Sophie topping up her glass as she leans closer to him, murmuring: “So, how did you two meet?”

She eyes Harry, who has devoted his full attention to their conversation by now.

“We met at work. Well, my work.” He isn’t certain what else to tell her, doesn’t know what Roxy has told her about their occupation or where he stands with Harry. Hell, Harry hasn't ever told him where Eggsy stands with him.

They’ve never been out as a couple. Not like this, at least. Sure, they go out for romantic dinners - any passerby could discern that - and they’re hardly secretive about their relationship, but so far it has been just the two of them in a sea of strangers. Roxy and Merlin know, but only because they work at Kingsman. He hasn’t even told his mum or any of his old friends. Harry is something so tangible to him and yet they’re unknown to the world.

“I actually went to see Merlin,” Harry cuts in helpfully, directing Sophie’s attention to himself. “We’re old friends and ex colleagues. I had some business to take care of and decided to stop by, and that’s when I accidentally ran into Eggsy. I confess I’m still not entirely certain how I managed to get him to give me a chance and go for out dinner, but I count myself incredibly lucky he agreed to come.” He looks right at Eggsy as he says it, one of those moments of sincerity that stuns Eggsy’s heart into beating faster from a surge of affection. Harry clears his throat and smiles at Sophie. They’re both vulnerable like this and Harry doesn’t intend to keep it that way. He says: “This cocktail is excellent by the way.”

“Oh, thank you. It’s a recipe a friend of mine learned at Oxford. At times it seems more like they’re in bar-tending school than university down there.”

“As a former student I’ll agree. There’s no better place to learn how to make a proper martini.”

She grins. “You must have a fair few tricks up your sleeve then.”

“Merlin’s the real pro here,” Harry insists.

At Sophie's curious look, he says: “That’s sort of my job is what Harry is trying to say. No funny business in higher education.”

“Well, I should have left the drinks to you either way,” Sophie says a tad embarrassed. “What’s your honest opinion of my concoction?”

“Very passable. Bit heavy on the vodka maybe.”

“A girl has her preferences,” Sophie says with a sly smile.

“Oh yes,” Harry says and slides forward in his chair. “You said you and Eggsy met at a club?”

“Only briefly, regrettably so.”

Not wanting to go into the details of that night, Eggsy says: “At least now I know I left Rox in good company.”

“Is that how you met her too?” Harry enquires. He wouldn’t believe Roxy and Sophie are just friends even if Eggsy hadn’t told him so already, though he’s careful not to suggest anything else to Sophie.

She blushes and turns to her drink. “I’d seen her on Tinder a few times. We might have even swiped each other right, I honestly can’t remember, but I do know we never really got talking. That night she showed up to greet Charlie, mutual friend, I happened to recognise her, and, with Eggsy abandoning his friend, she decided to chat me up instead.”

She throws Eggsy a look and he holds his hands up. “That was not a tactic on my part.”

“With what Charlie said, I’d hardly be inclined to think so.”

What Sophie doesn’t seem to suspect is that the rest of that story had very much been Roxy’s design, because her and Charlie are not friends by any measure, and Eggsy knows she’d never engage with him (particularly with Eggsy present) unless there is something substantial to be gained from indulging his worst side. Fact is, she had recognised Sophie first and set up an expert accidental run in. In a way, it was liek watching the plot of a movie unspool. Sometimes he thinks she could break the bank playing professional matchmaker.

Merlin decides to take that moment to lean forward to pour himself another drink. “Well, now that I’ve successfully established myself as a fifth wheel,” he says, “anyone know what’s for dinner?”

“No clue. You know, I just hope it isn’t burnt,” Sophie says. “I’m not much of a cook myself.”

Eggsy peers in the direction of the kitchen, the quiet clatter of bowls and knives the only indication of Roxy’s presence. “Maybe I should go check on Rox,” he says and casts a look Harry’s way, silently asking if he’ll be okay left to his own devices.

Harry gives a small nod and it’s more an answer to the subvocal question than the voiced one. Eggsy works up enough courage to brush a casual kiss to the top of Harry's head on his way to the kitchen, somehow knowing Harry turns his head to stare after him. _One step at a time_ , he thinks, _we're going places I never dared to imagine before_.

 

* * *

 

“Are you still alive?” he asks Roxy, who is stood amid her various half finished dishes.

She huffs, “Barely. I almost burned myself on the oven hatch. Child safety lock my arse. Could you be a dear and open that jar. My hands are too oily.” Roxy points to a golden jar of pickled garlic cloves. “Everything okay out there?”

“More or less. Sophie’s a delight, Harry knows how to be polite company. Although, Merlin’s approaching a stupor rather fast, I think.”

“I’m not surprised.”

The jar gives a loud pop and Eggsy sighs. “What’ve you got on him anyway? He looks miserable as shit.”

“Now, it wouldn’t be fair to my agreement with him if I told you.”

“That bad, huh? Come on, we’re best mates and I’m kinda doing you a favour by being here.”

She doesn’t have room to bargain on that matter and they both know it. Roxy glances in the way of the open doorway where Harry and Sophie can still be heard having a conversation. “Fine,” she whispers and wipes her hands clean on a tea towel. “Crumble the cheese into the salad and keep watch.”

Roxy finds a stool to climb on and rummages through the cupboard on top of her fridge as quietly as possible. When she climbs back down again, it’s with a rectangular box that looks oddly like a VHS tape cover. “I didn’t want to keep it in my bedroom in case Merlin would try to make off with it somehow,” she says at Eggsy’s confused look. She returns to the ground and hands the tape over hesitantly.

He can see why. It’s quite possibly the strangest thing Eggsy has ever seen. “Is this… porn?”

Roxy nods.

There’s an awful background picture of a colourful jungle with a three half clad people posing in the centre. It appears to be an imitation of Tarzan, two men - one wild with a scarce loincloth, the other in a half unbuttoned expedition uniform - posing to each side of a young blonde in a linen dress that’s conveniently torn all the way to her hip. ‘ _The Law of the Jungle_ ’ it’s called. Eggsy would place it in the late eighties judging by the hair.

“Wait a minute, is that Merlin with long hair?” he asks.

“Yup,” Roxy says with a victorious smile. Somehow he’d assumed this was Merlin’s irreplaceable guilty pleasure kept in the back room, but the jaw on Tarzan is truly unmistakable.

“If I weren’t lookin’ at it with my own eyes, I would never believe this.” Even now Eggsy can barely wrap his head around the thought. “Have you watched it?”

“Only a little bit of the beginning when everyone still has their clothes on. I needed to make sure it was Merlin, after all, but I was not ready to see him naked on film.”

“When would you ever be? He’s basically our boss.” Eggsy turns the tape over in his hands. “Where did you even find this?”

“The absolute shadiest record store known to mankind. They had old DVDs and VHS tapes in the back and I decided to wade through them for some old classics. That was sitting next to Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

“The movie or the porn version?”

“The movie, thankfully. I doubt I could have survived that infringement on my childhood.” Roxy shudders.

“I still can’t believe this.”

“Can’t believe what?” Sophie asks from the doorway, eyebrow cocked in question.

Eggsy and Roxy snap apart in an instant, Eggsy hiding the tape behind his back. “Uh, just how delicious the salad is.”

Sophie passes a look of ‘oh please’ from one to the other and rolls her eyes. “Alright, I won’t press. Is dinner ready yet? We’re sort of behind schedule.”

“Yes, I just need to get it the main out of the oven. Why don’t you take the salad out already and ask everyone to the table?” She practically thrusts the bowl at her almost-girlfriend and shoos her out of the kitchen. Once Sophie is out of earshot, Roxy fumbles for the mittens and says, “You better put that back in the cupboard before Merlin waltzes in here.”

Eggsy obliges. His heart still pounding from a moment ago, he climbs up on the stool and stashes the tape in the back of the cupboard. He nearly falls off the chair when Harry appears in the doorway, asking if there’s anything he can carry. Luckily he manages to cling to the cabinet door at the last moment.

“What on earth are you doing up there?” Harry asks and Eggsy blanks completely for a moment.

He stares at Roxy with desperation and she jumps in for him, saying, “He’s looking for candles. The white ones.”

Eggsy blinks at her momentarily. “Right.” He turns back to the cupboard and pulls out a few candle sticks from under a mountain of mismatched napkins. “Here they are, behind the blue ones.” It's a blatant enough lie to be realised by anyone with half a mind, but Harry doesn't ask.

“I can take those,” he offers instead. “You ought to get down before you injure yourself.”

“Will do.”

“That was a close call,” Roxy mutters moments later.

“Reckon Harry knows about the film?” 

She hums thoughtfully. “I have no clue. But you can’t say a word to him about it. If Merlin finds out I told anyone else about the tape, he'll wring my neck.”

“Well, you’re much too nice to wind up in a ditch. Maybe I can tease it out of Harry some other way.”

“Were they even friends back then?”

“Twenty-five, thirty years ago? Could be. I thought they met at an earlier age than us.”

“Huh, in that case, do you think Harry’s made one too?” she asks with a smirk.

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Eggsy says. He grabs the bottle of wine on the counter and adds: “You might wanna get the oven though, or dinner is really going to be burnt.”

“Oh, _damn_!”

 

* * *

 

 

The food turns out to be delicious and not the least bit oven charred. Merlin takes charge of plugging in some ambient music while Sophie lights the candles and Harry pours the wine. It’s all rather cheerful, picturesque in the way lighthearted closing scenes on telly are. Eggsy’s always wondered if those were real. Now, with Sophie groaning in delight at her first bite of crispy courgette cannelloni, he knows they can be in this new life he’s crafted for himself.

“My god, I would kill a man for this,” Sophie says and her sigh is near scandalous.

Believe me, I did almost have to maul someone at Sainsbury's for the good pasta.”

“I daresay it was a worthy fight,” Harry says in good humor and raises his glass in a mock toast.

Merlin snorts at that. “He doesn’t that say that lightly, you know. I once watched Harry beat someone to a pulp drunk for cutting in line at a chip shop.”

“No!” Roxy says, astounded. Of course she’s heard every tale of Harry and Merlin’s youthful adventures from Eggsy, but a direct admission is new.

Harry licks his lips. “Admittedly not my finest moment. I’m afraid I don’t mix well with eighty percent vodka.”

“It was an obscure Russian brand too, bought from a tax free no man's land shop between the Russian and Finnish border. I have to say, you young people these days have quite the market, but back in our day you had to smuggle this stuff in with great effort.”

“And here I thought I recall you once telling me you would never become bitter and old,” Harry says to him.

“Everything at its own time, Harry. We were bound to be middle aged fuckwits some day.”

“I’ll drink to that then.”

Harry knocks his wine back and Sophie giggles. “You’re quite possibly the least boring middle aged twits I’ve met, so I’ll have one to that too.” 

“To middle aged twits,” Roxy chimes in and Eggsy follows suit. “Any wisdom you two have to share?”

“Always ask for extra cheese and never, ever, ever pick a fight by a cemetery.”

Eggsy splutters. “What now?”

“Fight in the cemetery: bad idea.”

“I'm sorry, we more context on that.”

Eggsy looks over at Harry, who shrugs, which can only mean they’re in for the earliest of Merlin’s misdeeds. Fantastic. He really never does cease to take one by surprise. Sometimes Eggsy wonders whether Merlin and Harry are as bad as each other, or whether one is the root cause of the others idiocy. He isn’t the only one dying to know.

“Go on,” Sophie demands. She flushed from the wine by now, slipping into a territory past pre-club drinks, not that he can blame her. They’re all having a splendid time.

Merlin reaches for some more salad before he concedes. “I guess that’s only fair. This happened almost thirty years ago on a night out with the lads in Glasgow. You know how it is: too much illicit whiskey, a scorned heart, your rival suitor turns up - half off his face and sneering and you’re not off much better yourself. This wasn’t exactly an age for pistol duels at dawn anymore, even if it precedes you lot by a fair few years.” He nods his head at Harry in recognition of his age. “So, what did we do? We decide to have a civil fight - whatever that means - but not in the city where there’s coppers around. No, instead we agreed to meet on the back slope of the Necropolis after a late night kebab. Just the two of us, no dicking around with the others.

“The boys left me at the golden gates. I went in and up, and let me tell you I wasn’t entirely sure I’d make it all the way along the winding paths on the hill intact. See, I was both extremely drunk and already veering on a hangover. But I get there and Callum, the bastard, is waitin’, sort of dozing against a tree. It’s a bit hazy from there. I suspect it wasn’t pretty, but I do know I was winning, because the blood between us wasn’t mine. At least not until he tipped me backwards into an open grave and threw a spade in after me.”

Roxy gasps and nearly knocks over her wine. “And you get on our arses for one too many shots at the club.”

“What happened then?”

“I passed out I suppose. Maybe it was the liquor, or the headwound, or the flat out exhaustion; most likely it came down to a near fatal combination. Woke up four hours later to half a funeral concession screaming their heads off. Of course that died down a bit when I woke up. The priest, very kindly, pulled me out. I told him some mad drunkard had attacked me - I had the spade to prove it - and I rather think the people believed it just fine, though I know he could smell whiskey gone bad on me, no question about it. There were too many witnesses to make a quiet exit, so I ended up in hospital. Ma nearly tore my head off when I got home the next day. Hence, never start a fight in a cemetery.” 

“I don’t think any of us intended to, but we’ll be sure not to now,” Roxy says.

“You should write a memoir,” says Eggsy.

“I certainly would read that. Get it as a Christmas present for everyone too. God, Merlin, I had no idea you had it in you. You’re such a sober bartender.” 

“There is only so much anyone in their right mind would subject their liver to,” he says drily. “There’s being sloppy and there’s getting a death sentence. I’m not about to beg my friends for a slice of their damaged organs.”

“Roxy, I had no idea you keep such enigmatic company,” Sophie says.

“You’ve got a loose screw, love.”

“Can you blame her? Compared to a classist paperclip like Charlie, anyone would be charming.”

Eggsy doesn’t mean to make her snort out half her wine and Roxy’s quick to shove an extra napkin at Sophie. “Christ, are you trying to kill me?” she asks, coughing.

“I can’t help the accuracy of that description.”

“Perhaps we’ll move on to dessert before we end up with corpses or an excess of wine stains,” Roxy suggests. “It’s getting late too.” 

Dessert is a less formal affair. They move away from the table, which is only meant for four to begin with, and sprawl out in the living room with gooey, ice cream topped brownies and shot glasses filled to the brim with brandy in the absence of anything better. Merlin gets through his third glass by the time Roxy declares she’s going to go get changed. Eggsy’s of the opinion he’s starting to look a little gone, and Harry must agree, because he hijacks the brandy bottle to the far end of the table.

“Sophie,” Roxy calls from the bowels of her bedroom, “I don’t trust myself with this eyeliner anymore. Do you mind?”

She goes with a wink at Eggsy, bare feet inaudible on the floorboards. She isn’t familiar enough with Roxy’s run down flat to avoid the creaky floorboards yet. Eggsy sincerely hopes it’s only a matter of time, because he’s starting to be rather fond of her on Roxy’s behalf. Taking the opening on the sofa, Harry comes to sit next to him.

“Is eyeliner how people flirt these days?” Harry asks, extending an arm across Eggsy’s shoulders.

“It’s the modern day equivalent of the ever elusive zipper. According to Roxy, no woman who respects herself would buy a dress she can’t zip up herself.”

"And still you insist on complaining about the rules of the aristocracy.”

“Yes, ‘cause the zipper's a matter of independence - however trivial. Mushing your peas has no logical explanation whatsoever.” Even as he argues, Eggsy burrows into Harry’s side.

He vaguely recalls some bird leaning on him years ago, but Eggsy has never let himself slip into comfortably into even the mildest displays of physical affection. Given, it used to be dangerous. He’d seen girls he had no business with for most of his life and blokes weren’t exactly welcome in his previous social circle. Harry indulges him with a hand toying at his collar a thumb brushing at his hairline.

Roxy reappears after just long enough a time for Eggsy to have lapsed into wondering whether her and Sophie have become distracted by each other. She’s dazzling in her new getup: smokey eyes and dark lipstick dominating her face as a silver dress licks down her figure and disintegrates into a beaded hem above her knees. She sweeps across the room and casts a worried look Merlin’s way.

“Oh God, I shouldn’t have left the brandy out,” she says. Turning to Eggsy and Harry, she asks: “Would you mind taking him home?”

They glance at each other and Harry says, “I believe as his best friend of a number of years that substitutes your entire lifetime, it’s my duty.” He shifts in his seat, making half a move to go haul Merlin out of the armchair. “Is the taxi downstairs yet?”

“Can’t be more than a matter of minutes now.”

She scurries around the flat collecting her belongings as Harry gets Merlin up with a groan and Eggsy hovers beside them, not quite willing to step in unless it’s strictly necessary. He knocks into Sophie in the doorway to the bedroom as he steps out of the way.

“Shit, sorry.”

She catches herself on the door and hurries to say, “Don’t worry.” She too has touched up her makeup to lean on the heavier side and donned a pair of black tights to combat the worst bite of winter. “Is Merlin alright?”

“He’ll sober up in his own time.”

“Well, we ought to get going then. Charlie gets awfully tetchy if one’s late.” She rolls her eyes at Eggsy.

“Send him my warmest greetings.”

“I presume that means flaming him properly in hell.”

Eggsy grins. “You’ve just about caught on.”

He hugs her and Roxy goodbye on the pavement, him and Harry letting them take the first cab.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it’s nearly eleven by the time they roll up in front of Merlin’s house. Eggsy has never been there, isn’t quite sure of where they are to begin with really, and he peers up at the old three story house with fascination. They’re all flats in this area, more upscale than what he’s living in, but a far cry from Harry’s immense house.

Merlin seems to recognise it at once, climbing out of the backseat they’re all squeezed into as soon as the car stops. Harry scrambles after him across the seat and tells the cabbie to wait for him as he tries to hold on to Merlin on pavement.

“D’you need help?” Eggsy asks. He’s halfway to the door already, but Harry shakes his head.

“I can manage. Be back in a moment.”

He’s gone in an instant after Merlin, who is rummaging through his pockets for the keys on the doorstep. Eggsy watches Harry take over for him and find the key to let them in. It’s an effortless dance him and Roxy have executed in turns: good mates taking care of each other. He’s witnessed it every day in the streets of London and the forefront of the club where hen parties huddle together to prop up their more intoxicated members.

A dark flat lights up on the second floor and Harry returns ten minutes later. He’s a little worse for wear, missing his tie, which has somehow made its way from around his neck to being stuffed clumsily in his pocket.

“You okay?” Eggsy asks him as he slides back into the cab with a sigh.

“Yes, particularly now I have you all to myself.” He smiles faintly. At the far end of the block, a small litany of fireworks goes off.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks impatiently, eyeing them through the rearview mirror.

“Fireworks at the Thames?” Harry asks.

“Under one condition,” Eggsy says. “You let me borrow your gloves. I forgot my own at home.”

“You’re incurable,” Harry mutters, but surrenders his gloves to Eggsy anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Re: shady border liquor stores. I've been in the vicinity of the exact kind that was mentioned in this story more than once in my lifetime. There are some pretty strange ones on the Russian and Finnish border, but nothing beats the abomination of the gigantic complex stranded between the Estonian and Latvian border.
> 
> The next update will not be on a Sunday, but at the end of this month either on Tuesday the 29th or Wednesday the 30th in two and a half weeks. This is due to the fact that I won't know about my schedule for December until then, but I can't afford to wait for the weekend because I have an interview abroad to prepare for.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this is a day late! Work has cut into my writing time and I'm basically dead on the inside by now. If anything in this doesn't make sense I'll put that down to the fact that most of this came into existence at 3am.

He doesn’t see Roxy again until the next week when she returns from her second extended trip abroad in as many months.

“You’re turnin’ into a regular jet setter,” Eggsy says when she shows up to breakfast in sunglasses and a brand new woolen coat.

“I’ll have you know I am both jet lagged and hungover from layover vodka, so do not talk to me right now. My second flight got delayed by nine hours with one crackling announcement. The only reason they even let me on in the end is because I brushed my teeth right before boarding and somehow managed to look sleepy as hell instead of drunk off my arse, and let me tell you that in itself was a miracle because I was in heels.”

Roxy lowers herself gingerly into a chair at their usual table in the bistro. It’s that hangover friendly sone where the customers are sparse, the music is quietest, and they’re not under the glare of a sun struck window. For being in such bad straits, she still manages to look like she could kill a man with a sideways glance.

“Jesus, when did ya get home?”

“An hour ago. I did sleep through most of my flight, but  _ fuck  _ if I didn’t want to keel over right there.” Evidently she’d summoned a parcel of iron spirit, changed her clothes, and put on some lipstick before walking right out the door again instead. In all honesty, Eggsy is a little flattered. Flipping the menu open down the middle, she asks: “So, what’s new in dreary old England?”

“Not much. We had a sort of storm and I got stranded at Harry’s-”

“You say ‘stranded’ like you didn’t intend to find an excuse to stay over anyway,” she scoffs.

“Yes, well, the snow melted away, so there’s none of that for you now.”

Roxy smirks at him. “And I care why? Good riddance, if you ask me.”

“Not gonna start wearing flannel?”

He can feel her glare even through the sunglasses. If Roxy was going to hit him with a scathing comeback, she’s cut off by the appearance of a waiter. “Good morning,” he says in the sort of cheerful voice Eggsy knows is a reason for murder in Roxy’s books, “What can I get you?”

“Two large breakfast plates, please. And would it be possible to switch the café au lait for a espresso on mine.” Roxy flashes her best smile at him and adds, “I just need a bit of a kick today.”

“I think I can make an exception. Tea or coffee for you, sir?”

“Tea, ta.”

With the waiter gone, Roxy finally dares to try take her glasses off and reveal her bloodshot eyes shadowed by dark circles. “I think I could well sleep through all the way until tomorrow if I went to bed right after this.”

“Nothin’ is stoppin’ ya.”

“If only. Merlin’s  _ summoned _ me.”

Eggsy’s mouth forms a silent ‘oh’. “What for?”

“Just some paperwork, but you know how he can be: totalitarian and everything has to be done right now and to the tee. Or, I suppose, he does wasted too. Did you get home intact after dinner?”

“As far as I know. Harry took him the last mile from the curb to his bed, which is pro’ly for the best. I don’t think Merlin likes people knowing where he lives or how he lives,” Eggsy says.

He can’t deny he’s wondered about it a few times since: whether his flat is all sleek surfaces and spotlights or if it’s old and cosy, if maybe Merlin owns a cat or a fish tank or a gecko. There isn’t much he’d put past the man and nothing he can bet on with conviction. He pulls the roles of bartender, accountant, and choreographer in equal measure, which is perfection in every case. He’s even got the reckless drinking down.

Their breakfast appears on two half steaming, fruit ladden plates and they dig in with an appetite. Eggsy rarely indulges himself in eating out unless it’s greasy drunk food, though Harry’s persistent wooing has started to change him in that respect. At times he is more than happy to swap his fries for a slice of fresh pineapple.

After their initial eagerness has faded, Eggsy wipes his mouth and says, “Anyway, dinner was great. You should do that again.”

“I just might, actually. Sophie was into it and she certainly let me know, if you know what I mean.”

Eggsy definitely knows and nearly chokes on his juice as a result. He coughs into a napkin, eyes watering at the infernal burn of fresh squeezed orange bits in his trachea, all while Roxy looks on smugly. She moves on to her brie without an ounce of remorse for causing him pain.

“I’m thinking I might ask her to go exclusive. She seems amenable to it, but you never know. I’m quite nervous, to be honest. Do you think it’s a good idea?”

“You can’t ask me to give you relationship advice after ya just tried to kill me?” Eggsy wheezes.

“Oh, you’re a big boy. You should be able to handle yourself.”

“At least-” he clears his throat, “give me a mo.”

He’s painfully aware of the strange looks they’re getting, him trying not to fall off his chair while Roxy tries not to laugh. Eventually she gives him a few proper slaps to the back and the waiter rushes over to bring him a glass of water.

“On the bright side, we look equally terrible now,” Roxy tells him as he drinks slowly.

“I swear to god, you’re the devil in disguise.”

“I guess that’s fair enough,” Roxy concedes. She leaves a purple stain on her espresso cup and dabs the remains of the coffee from her lips. “How much are you selling your soul for?”

“Mate, that’s something you can’t afford. I’m a good person.”

“Disgustingly so, I should remark. You haven’t gone out with me in ages.”

Eggsy shrugs. “I mean I do spend a lot of time with Harry, but you ain’t around much either. I could do this weekend though.”

“Can’t, I’m afraid. I’m busy.”

“With what? You ain’t ever ‘round anymore and I reckon it’s more than your girlfriend that’s keeping you.”

“Darling, a girl has got to have her secrets. Where would we be in life otherwise?”

“Shallow grave?”

“Now _ that _ is just rude,” she says, but is betrayed by the twitch of a smile, “I’d put you six feet under well and proper.”

“At this rate ya won’t be ‘round to kill me anyway,” Eggsy says, casting a look at the clock on the opposite wall.

Roxy draws a sharp breath. “You’re right. I’d better hurry or I’ll be late.”

She gathers her things in a flurry, scarf draped over her bag, sunglasses unfolded, and her coat pulled over her shoulders all in what looks to be a single move. She slaps twenty quid on the table and scoops up her phone. “Take my change, will you?”

Eggsy nods and lets an arm come up halfway to meet her as Roxy bends down to kiss him once on each cheek. After that she is all flapping coat tails and the click of heels on the bistro tiles. Eggsy sits back and orders another tea while Roxy hails a taxi from the curb.

 

* * *

 

 

He takes his time in the cafe warming up properly before he faces the harsh winter air on a trek across two tube lines and the winding streets that lead up to Harry’s house. The world always quiets down strangely around the last few stretches of pavement. Eggsy casts a furtive glance around after he’s rung the doorbell, even the quiet ding of it within the house sounding like an intrusion on the neighbourhood.

“How may I-” Merlin’s deep voice starts. “Eggsy,” he says, as stunned to see Eggsy as Eggsy is to see him. “I presume you’re looking for Harry.”

“Yeah,” Eggsy says slowly and adds, “This is his house an’ all. I was meant to come ‘round today.”

Merlin’ clearly tries to place his presence into what is clearly some other version of scheduled events, theorising his very existence. In the end, he says: “Do come in before Mrs Wahldorf spies you through the lace curtains. Harry’s upstairs.” Merlin slides the door past defensive into an open invitation and disappears in the living room with his attention diverted back to his tablet.

“I didn’t know you were in the habit of coming to Harry’s house,” Eggsy says, certain Merlin will interpret it as the question it is. He shuts the door and kicks his shoes off, notes Merlin’s sitting under the coat rack. They’re still standing in a barely formed puddle, so he can’t have been around for long.

The only only explanation he offers is: “We’re friends.”

“So you came to drink spiked coffee and complain about how hard we make your life at the club?”

Merlin quirks an eyebrow. “I don’t know what lies Harry has been feeding you-”

“But you’re still the heartless-bastard-in-charge, got it.” He pats Merlin on the shoulder in passing even at the risk of receiving a scathing glare.

Just then Harry appears, looking as confused as Merlin did initially. “Eggsy… I did think I heard the doorbell. I’m afraid I forgot you were coming over.”

“Don’t worry about going senile yet,” Merlin comments drily.

Eggsy doesn’t bother suppressing his smile. “I don’t really mind the company if I’m honest.”

Merlin clutches dramatically at his tie. “How flattering.”

Harry cuts in apologetically: “Merlin and I were meant to discuss some business matters.”

“Oh.” Catching the drift of that is not difficult. “How long d’ya reckon that’ll take?” Eggsy doesn’t mean to sound disappointed, particularly so when he sees the way Harry’s face morphs at his words. It’s not a rejection, he has to remind himself; Harry would never reject him. He braves half a smile and says: “If it’s longer I could pop down the shops and get something for dinner.”

“I think this should only take another half hour.” Harry looks to Merlin for confirmation and gets a tentative nod. He’s pushing into Eggsy’s space, saying, “Why don’t you entertain yourself upstairs in the meantime? Pick a film; I promise not to ask obnoxious questions even if I join halfway through and hate it. Alright?”

“Free pass on anything?”

“Yes.”

“You’re getting the least coherent action film you’ve seen in decades.”

Harry rolls his eyes with the tiniest shake of his head like he can’t quite condone his own fondness. “Go on then.”

Eggsy contemplates him for a short moment before he kisses Harry, Merlin or no Merlin as their witness. He finds he cares less and less about the world as time passes and his focus realigns around the man he’s come to love. And, if sometimes he wonders whether things are easier for Harry than they are for him, he knows they are in the same boat when he pulls away to curious eyes scanning him.

He leaves it at that and skips up the stairs two steps at a time, the resumed conversation in the sitting room blurring. By now all the initial awkwardness he felt being in Harry’s house has faded and Eggsy wanders right into the bedroom, hijacks the remote for Harry’s ridiculous sixty inch TV on the wall across from the bed, and finds the dip in the mattress where Harry has slept on his own for a decade.

He puts  _ Hot Fuzz _ on hold for when Harry comes up and leans over to nick a book from the nightstand. Harry’s pile has found two new additions and lost one member since the last time Eggsy had a proper look. The topmost book is the one he’s gotten Harry for Christmas - Mitchell’s _ The Bone Clocks _ , a bookmark sticking out of the end of  _ The Wedding Bash _ . One of the pile’s permanent residents, Väinö Linna’s  _ The Unknown Soldier _ , has migrated to the bottom again, its white worn back a stark contrast to the other half read pocket books sitting on top of it.

The time goes by in a flash as Eggsy works his way through another few pages through Linna’s novel from where he last left off, the dense text reading like molasses, until Harry is in the doorway, muttering, “You’re not nearly in far enough to frown like that.”

Eggsy looks up, startled. “It ain’t an easy read.”

“Want to borrow my glasses?”

“You flirt like a pensioner,” Eggsy says.

“I am nearly a pensioner, remember?”

“Fifteen years is a long time to go.”

“I’m not fifty.”

“Gotta make some estimate, since I still don’t know your actual age.” Eggsy wonders if that’s a cause for concern, but finds he’s quite alright not knowing in favour of being distracted by Harry realigning the geometry of the mattress with his weight. “Where’s Merlin?”

“Hopefully not in my house, seeing as I just saw him out,” Harry says jokingly. He’s close now, and inching closer still, eyes on Eggsy’s mouth.

“What sort of ‘business’ was that anyway?”

“Since when are you interested in the ventures of tailoring?” Harry asks and Eggsy isn’t entirely sure how he manages to make the question sound like sex.

“I just don’t see what Merlin’s got to do with it either. He’s a bartender.”

“Exactly. The shop goes through a fair bit of liquor and ordering a few extra bottles in his bulk delivery is a lot cheaper for us. In exchange you get those dapper little uniforms for the floor.”

“‘Dapper’ uniforms? They’re whorish aprons at best.”

“Rude,” Harry murmurs without a hint of offence. “You know, you shouldn’t concern yourself with the particulars of the financial arrangements I make with Merlin.”

“I s’pose you have better things to occupy my with.”

Harry doesn’t need encouraging twice to send his hands roaming up under Eggsy’s shirt. “I could think of a thing or two.”

And Eggsy knows the drill of this, knows the things Harry’s mouth can do, knows that Harry knows every inch of his body by now  _ and _ that he’s both willing and eager to exploit that knowledge. His retort gets stuck somewhere in the back of his throat and he lets his head fall back into the pillows. Let Harry take the lead if he’s so hungry to impress, Eggsy decides.

 

* * *

 

 

The lull of the holidays dies down the following Monday when the bulk of London seems to have waded through the post-Christmas distortion back into their daily lives. The fleeting smiles and cheerful chit chat about the two inches of snow they’ve been graced with morphs into the old teeth clenching irritation at the winds and rush hour sleet fronts. Harry works a full week, mending suits abused by oversized dinners. Kingsman draws an ever increasing nightly crowd until they’ve crawled back from the holiday dip in patrons.

Eggsy gets Harry to stay over at his for the half of the weekend he has work and Harry does not, and goes over to Harry’s for the following two days he has off. They have middle of the night pizza on Saturday and laze their way into Sunday afternoon with a disjointed conversation of when they’ll actually walk the dog.

“At my age you’ve got the right to be a little lazy,” Harry insists.

“You’re setting a bad example.”

“I’m your boyfriend, even if that sounds weird for someone my age, not the big bad stranger that jaywalks in front of children.”

Eggsy snorts. “I promise not to make you dress properly. You, me, sweats, and JB.” Eggsy scoops the pug up in his arms for a joint puppy eyes effect.

Harry groans in defeat. “Alright, alright. Give me fifteen minutes.”

That Eggsy will grant him, because Harry is one of those people that refuse to exist with a five o’clock shadow at any time. He takes the time to put away the breakfast dishes they’ve left lying around, since he finally knows which cabinet is actually the dishwater in disguise. Outside the kitchen window, one of the elderly residents on the street braves the step on their front door. Somewhere in the distance - much farther than they used to be where he lived a few years ago - sirens wail, too far off to go through the shift of the doppler effect. What sounds much closer is a bang like car crash and Eggsy instinctively leans toward the window even though he can’t see anything from here.

“Harry,” he calls hesitantly. Backing out into the stairwell Eggsy shouts up again. “Harry, I think someone just wrecked their car on a house down the main road.”

“Sorry what was that?” Harry appears at the top of the stairs half shaven with a wet towel in one hand.

“I swear someone totalled their car. Did ya not not hear that?”

“No, the tap-”

Harry is interrupted by someone ringing the doorbell three times in rapid succession, then a pounding on the front door. Eggsy is about to ask if he should open, when they yell “Harry, fucking let me in!” and he recognises the muffled voice to be Roxy’s.

His actions after that stop being a question and Eggsy is at the door in an instant, barely managing to get out of the way when Roxy barrels in as soon as she can possibly fit through the doorframe, screaming: “Close the door! Close it, close it! For fuck’s sake-”

She half crumples to the floor, groaning in pain, and Eggsy at least has the good sense to throw himself against the door as Harry rushes down the stairs. It takes him a few moments to realise there’s blood on the floor - Roxy’s -  and that more is soaking through her trousers  at an alarming rate.

“What happened?” Harry asks, calm in a way that screams of underlying tension, and it curdles Eggsy’s blood. He gets a scarf before he kneels down beside her. “Lancelot,” he says and she stills at the use of her codename.

“It was Gazelle,” Roxy says, seeming to snap into some alternate state, “She stabbed me.” She stops crying, though she still clings to Harry with a pained expression and screams when he pulls the scarf into a tight knot over the wound in her leg.

“A gazelle?” Eggsy repeats incredulously, the situation not computing properly. His head is spinning like it did the first time he realised he was going to get a proper, brain shattering beating from Dean.

“Not  _a_ gazelle ,” Harry amends. “Gazelle; It’s a person.” He runs a hand through his hair, starting to show signs of obvious distress, and Eggsy can’t help but think it’s all setting in worryingly late. “I need to get the first aid kit and call Merlin.”

That finally shakes Eggsy from the shock seeping into his bones. “Merlin? You need to call a fucking ambulance!”

“No,” Roxy chokes from the ground, reaching for Eggsy even as she’s looking at Harry.

He nods in agreement to something Eggsy clearly doesn’t understand, which only makes matters worse. Harry isn’t supposed to have secrets from him, not like this. “Harry, you’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. Call an ambulance! She’s fucking bleeding on the floor. Are you both crazy?” He’s shouting at the end and Harry steps right up to him, planting two grunding hands on his shoulders.

“Eggsy, listen to me. You’re going to have to trust me on this. Get Roxy into the kitchen and draw the curtains. And call Merlin, please. Can you do that for me?” He shakes Eggsy when he doesn’t receive a reply. “I said: Can you do that?”

Eggsy only nods.

“Good.”

Eggsy swallows as Harry bounds up the stairs and tries to push away the nausea bubbling up in him. He finds Merlin’s contact on autopilot, calls twice. Leaving the phone on the kitchen counter to ring for a third time, Eggsy grips Roxy from under her arms, saying, “Okay, this is going to hurt. Ready?”

She nods and braces herself for the pain by screwing her eyes shut as Eggsy yanks her toward the tiled kitchen floor. They’re both panting by the time he’s maneuvered Roxy into a half upright position next to the sink. “What do ya need?” he asks. For a moment Roxy doesn’t say anything and it occurs to Eggsy he might just go insane if she says ‘nothing’.

Roxy knows better. “Tell me it’s gonna be okay,” she says, her eyes brimming with tears again.

“I can’t promise you somethin’ like that,” Eggsy says, because he’s learned there are some things in life that are not his to decide, no matter how gut wrenching the alternate outcome is. He draws the curtains as instructed and gives her a glass of water and a tight hug, which is the exact moment the phone clicks.

“Hello,” Merlin’s voice booms in the kitchen.

“Merlin!” Eggsy isn’t entirely sure what he’s supposed to say, so he settles on, “Someone called Gazelle stabbed Roxy,” and hopes that means something to the other man.

Eggsy is worried he’s lost him in the following silence. Three seconds seem like an eternity watching Roxy bite down on a quivering lip. “Where are you?” Merlin finally asks.

“Harry’s house. Merlin, I don’t know what the f-”

“Don’t think about that now. Is Roxy stable?”

“I ain’t a medic.”

“Is she conscious?”

“Yes.”

“Let me speak to her.”

Eggsy almost throws the phone away out of sheer frustration.  _ Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?  _ Instead, he clenches his jaw shut and hands the phone over without a word. He’s starting to convince himself this is all some fucked up dream. How else is he supposed to cope?

Which is when Harry signals him out into the hallway, carrying an oversized first aid box that’s an apparition in his own right. “This is going to hurt like a bitch, so you better hold her hand,” he whispers to Eggsy. “We need to patch her up before I can try sort this out properly.”

“Harry,” Eggsy grabs him by the arm before he has the chance to slip away again, “What is happening?”

“We’ll talk about that later, okay? Roxy’s got to come first.”

“Right.” And Harry _ is _ right about this at least.

Eggsy leaves it that and pours every ounce of his soul into comforting Roxy after that: two hands wound around hers as Harry cleans her wound with rubbing alcohol. She screams into Eggsy’s shoulder with a force that reverberates inside him and he murmurs his most sincere platitudes into her hair when Harry brings out the needle. He can’t watch the stitches pulling her flesh together, so he squeezes his eyes shut and lets her dig her teeth into his shoulder.

“I just have to tie this now,” Harry says, and Eggsy can feel Roxy unwind marginally with relief.

Her eyes are burning red as she draws back from him. “Thank you,” she says to Eggsy and her voice nearly breaks from how hoarse it is.

“Rox, don’t be stupid. I’d do anything for ya.”

“I don’t think you know what that entails.” She considers him for a moment before she reaches into her coat, fumbling for something she presses blindly into his hands.

It’s cold metal and- Eggsy almost drops it. “Why do you have a gun?”

“I- I’m not allowed to say. Just... Can you promise me you won’t get mad? I didn’t have a choice, after.”

“What are you talking about?”

She looks at Harry again then. Harry, who averts his gaze. _ How telling _ , Eggsy thinks and he can no longer neglect the fact that something is going very wrong and Harry knows what it is. “What is she talking about?” Eggsy presses.

“We are not at liberty to discuss that at present,” Harry says. The monotony of his voice coupled with an intense stare directed at Roxy scare Eggsy almost more than the facts of the situation he  _ is _ aware of, or can at least infer with reason.

Outside, there’s the distinct sound of a car grinding to a halt right outside the front door, several pairs of heavy feet and then the front door is caving to fill the house with what appears to be a medical team. They’re all in grey uniform, three men practically hauling Roxy out of Eggsy’s arms.

“Wait,” she begs, twisting helplessly to get a look at Eggsy, “I want to say I’m sorry now, even if you don’t know what for and even if you decide later it doesn’t matter to you. And I understand if you can’t make any guarantees, I really do… It’s just that you’re my best friend and I don’t want to lose you.”

“Rox, I ain’t goin’ nowhere; you’ve just been stabbed, for fuck’s sake.”

“Like you said: you can’t make promises like that.”

“I’ll fucking pinky swear right now.” He holds his hand out in spite of the distinct feeling he’s making a huge mistake.

Eggsy watches them clear her out of the front door, noting Roxy is swept into a cab with tinted windows and what looks to be a waiting IV line from where he’s standing. He waits for the car to drive away, waits until Harry shuts the front door to enclose them in dead air before he says, as calmly as he can muster: “I think you’ve got some explainin’ to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Chapter notes:**  
>  **1.** _Hot Fuzz_ (2007) is a hilarious action movie parody with Simon Pegg in the lead and I would wholeheartedly recommend it for a good laugh. It also brought me the very confusing experience of Pierce Brosnan with a moustache.  
>  **2.** The suggestion for the book Eggsy got Harry for Christmas came from osmsauce (thank you very much for that) and it definitely sounds like a good read. Haven't personally made it to that particular corner of David Mitchell's literature, but I'll vouch for him in general.  
>  **3.** Väinö Linna's _The Unknown Soldier_ is a national treasure of ours and I couldn't pass up an opportunity to reference it. I think it's definitely something that would appeal both to Harry and Eggsy, but, as I had Eggsy mention in this chapter, it is quite a bit of work to read. Unfortunately I have no idea whether the translation is any good, but if you want to give it a shot (or, you know, happen to be fluent in Finnish) it's definitely a rec twice over.
> 
> As for my existence in general... there's a reason Regency has dubbed me Satan's flower child and this is it. I honestly wish I could say I'm sorry for what I did to poor Roxy, but you've had too much fluff and it's time to suffer. You get to suffer, I get to suffer, everyone gets to suffer.
> 
> To make matters worse, the next update is gonna be a while away. I'm going to be out of the country for uni interviews for a good week and then there's the matter with Christmas being right around the corner, friends coming back home for the holidays after living abroad for months etc. etc.. What does this mean exactly? In essence, I can't promise I have time to write an update this month. I'll do my best of course, but I can't promise there will be one before the 8th of January.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've been sick for weeks, so I really did need all the leeway I had scheduled for this. Huge thanks to [mistyfish](http://mistyfish.tumblr.com/) for giving this a read through to make sure it fits the narrative I'm trying to establish. You saved me from a lot of self doubt!

“Eggsy-”

“No, listen I don’t want no fuckin’ excuses right now,” Eggsy says, fists clenching because he can see Harry dodging him a mile wide. “Roxy is my best mate and I deserve to know why she came runnin’ to you, bleedin’ out on the doorstep. Obviously you know something I don’t and I suggest ya get this right if I’m worth anything to you.”

“This has nothing to do with us,” Harry warns him and that’s got to be the last straw for Eggsy.

He’s never taken kindly to threats, but it’s always been worse when he isn’t the one who's hurt. “Harry look, I love you, but I loved Roxy first - like my mum and my sister - and I swear if you’re in any way connected to this, I won’t hesitate one fucking second to-”

Eggsy sucks in a heavy a breath, not quite sure how he intends to end that sentence, only that it’s not good. There isn’t much time to meditate on it with Merlin barging in, brows furrowed in concentration.

He nearly walks straight into Eggsy, eyes glued to a tablet, but looks up just in time to avoid a collision. His eyes flick from Eggsy to Harry and back again. “You two look like a solemn congregation.”

And really, Eggsy has better manners, but it isn’t his fault he’s borderline explosive and that Merlin chooses that instance to toe over the line, so it isn’t entirely unreasonable to pack the other man by the shirtfront and shove with his entire weight.

“Hey hey hey!” Harry is on him as quickly as he was on Merlin and Eggsy’s momentum dies, though his fists are still tightly wound in Merlin’s jumper even as Harry is practically folding Eggsy’s arms to his chest.

Merlin swallows three inches from him. “Would you mind unhanding me?”

“Eggsy,” Harry says. It’s so soft in his ear, but the sound rumbles through Eggsy’s body where they’re pressed together and his fists unfurl on their own accord. One part of him wants to leave it be and let Harry surround him like this, to go limp and let someone else shelter him. But it’s that same part that’s a watery grave - wobbling in his throat and clouding his eyes, a tidal wave of emotion threatening to break - and he’s spent a lifetime running from that.

“Let go of me,” Eggsy manages, quiet and rough where he can’t quite stop his voice from shaking. It still carries enough force to affect Harry, and Eggsy pries himself free with ease. The volatile component of his anger seems to have worn out, sparked and burned and suffocated all in the same move. It leaves him smoke streaked and standing two feet from Harry and Merlin, just as confused in the settling silence as he was with everyone screaming around him.

Merlin is the first to move in the fragile peace. He pulls at his shirt and smooths a hand over the two bulges of stretched out fabric where Eggsy lost his temper, adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. He retrieves the tablet dropped in their scuffle from the floor and says, “Okay, new tactic. I presume you have some questions.” At the way Eggsy grinds his teeth, he adds: “Fair enough; you most certainly have questions. They’re not for Harry to answer, at least not right now. The person who hurt Roxy is still out there and it is in your best interest that they are dealt with immediately.”

“What’s any of this got to do with Harry?”

“Harry is the very person entrusted with that task. Don’t worry, he can fill you in on any of the details you want to know later. Well, most of them.” Merlin glances between them again like he’s assessing the damage. The mere thought of how broken everything is, even though Eggsy can’t even begin to comprehend it yet, forms a lump in his throat.

He wants to ask so many questions, but Merlin appears to be hard pressed for time, no matter how calm he sounds. Whatever the problem is, whatever hurricane has decided to sweep into his life through Harry’s front door and wreak havoc on his hard won happiness, Merlin has decided Harry is the solution and Merlin is rarely wrong, so Eggsy swallows defeat.

“And in the meantime?”

“I assume you would like to see Roxy.”

Eggsy nods. She may not have been on the verge of dying, blood loss notwithstanding, but he still needed the assurance of seeing her cared for and out of pain.

“Good,” Merlin says scribbles something down on a piece of paper. “That’s the hospital address. She’ll be sedated for a while yet.”

It’s a dismissal judging by the way Merlin turns to Harry, but Eggsy can’t move, rooted to the spot staring at the slip of paper that’s crinkled where Merlin put pressure on the edges. He’s barely aware of the conversation around him, half in shock and still reeling.

Merlin asks, “Is the objective clear?” and Harry answers with, “Yes.”

“Target?”

“Yes.”

“Then proceed. I will keep you updated on coordinates. Take my car; it’s fully stocked. I’ll secure the house.”

Eggsy only clicks to attention at the sound of keys switching hands. He looks up to Harry looking right back at him for the first time in too long. “I can give you a ride to the hospital,” he says.

Eggsy can’t manage a single word in response, so Merlin does it for him, saying, “You don’t have the time Harry.”

Apparently, it isn’t a statement that can be argued with, because Harry makes for the door without another word. Eggsy can’t decide whether it’s a relief to have the situation dissolve or whether he ought to be hurt Harry would leave him in such a mess. He decides he can’t think about it now, not with his best friend in hospital. They will simply have to wait if there is anything left to wait for.

 

* * *

 

 

What Merlin called a hospital actually turns out to be the underground bowels of a day clinic, though Eggsy gets the distinct sense the keycard locked floors on the lift are part of something more classified than comfortable surgery for the wealthy. He also has the bright thought not to ask questions when he’s virtually alone in a strange place with locks on everything.

“She isn’t out of it yet,” Merlin says when he returns from the front desk.

“But nothin’ went wrong, yeah?”

“No, nothing of the sort.”

They both hesitate for a moment, standing awkwardly in a linoleum lobby. “Why don’t you go get yourself a little something from the vending machine?” Merlin suggests. “I still have some paperwork to fill out on Roxy’s behalf.”

“I have no money,” Eggsy deadpans. After all, he’d been told to leave everything and go.

“They’re free and quite decent if I recall correctly: packaged sandwiches and all.”

“Of course,” Eggsy mutters, more and more annoyed with Merlin by the minute. “Guess I’ll do that then.”

He stalks down the corridor toward the waiting room and doesn’t bother asking Merlin whether he wants anything. Eggsy simply doesn’t have the energy for niceties at the moment, still angry with a niggling worry growing in his stomach. One minute everything had been fine, then things decidedly were anything but, and next thing Eggsy knew, Merlin was hounding him into the back of the car without even his coat.

“Someone will take care of JB and sort your things out,” Merlin had said and Eggsy was too concerned with getting to Roxy to argue the point.

He’s starting to regret it now. The clinic is chilly and he wouldn’t particularly mind having his coat for both warmth and armour, pockets to burrow his clenched hands in. Eggsy opts for a scalding cup of coffee and a clingfoil wrapped tuna sandwich to occupy himself with instead. He knows he shouldn’t, but he checks his phone again, knowing full well Harry won’t have called him. He’s out there somewhere doing god knows what.

“Eggsy?” A nurse asks, uncertain even though he is the only person in the lounge.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Eggsy says, hurrying to put his phone away. He realises he’s passed half an hour without knowing and somehow eaten his sandwich in the process.

“Your friend has woken up and is ready to see you.”

“Uh, thanks.” He holds up his coffee. “Can I bring this with me?”

“Of course.”

Her smile reminds him of the GP he used to go to as a kid and he feels marginally more at ease thinking of his mum holding his hand every time they went in telling him it would all work out fine. This time he isn’t the one in pain though.

The nurse admits him into a quiet room where Merlin is already standing at the foot of Roxy’s bead.

“Hi,” he murmurs at her bleary eyed form in the bed.

“Hey,” she says back and has to clear her throat. “You came.”

“You bet.” Eggsy moves to squeeze her hand once, because he would never abandon her in a crisis, though he can’t manage a genuine smile at the moment.

“I’m in a bit of a state. Very druggy.” Her eyes momentarily slip toward the other side of the room before she manages to refocus them.

“Yeah, they gave you some good stuff.”

“Can’t feel much.”

“That’s good, yeah? That’s real good.”

Roxy nods once and lets her eyes fall shut, though she doesn’t seem to be drifting off. Merlin, still watching over them like a vigilant guard dog, clears his throat.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he says and Eggsy hums as a sign of acknowledgement.

Once he’s gone, Eggsy extracts his hand from Roxy’s to pull a chair up beside her bed. She looks at him then, a little more in focus this time, though her eyes blur watery when she yawns. She hoists herself upward in the bed and Eggsy isn’t entirely sure she isn’t tearing up.

“I really fucked this one up, didn’t I?”

“Don’t know. Would’ya maybe wanna tell me what ‘this’ is? ‘Cause I’ve had a fucking joyride of a day stumbling over one glossed over secret after another.” He adds: “Unless you’re not allowed to.”

“Technically I’m not, but Merlin said this mess is too big to protect, so it gets better for you from here on out.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Eggsy says.

She looks so very worn out when she says, “Me neither. Bottom line is this: Kingsman is not a strip club. Or, well, it is, but it’s more too.”

“I knew that much. It’s got branches in tailoring and cab companies-”

“Yes, but those are all daughter organizations. The main establishment is an independent intelligence agency. That’s what all of it is part of. The cabs are for transport, the tailor’s is for clothes and equipment, the club sometimes sets up discreet meetings. Some people just happen to work in those places, like you, and others are agents keeping up a base cover, like me.”

“Wait, wait so you’re saying you’re… a spy?” Eggsy asks.

Roxy shrugs. “Kind of. It’s not like a Bond movie or anything.”

“But you got stabbed and ran around with a gun?”

“I wasn’t meant to.”

“You still did. Fuck, Roxy I was so worried. You’re my best mate, I’m supposed to know you and now you’re telling me you’re a spy.” Eggsy gets out of his chair abruptly, nearly kicking it over as he starts pacing the room. “So you’ve been lying to me all this time then?”

“No! It’s not like that. I didn’t know this was going to happen when I applied for the job at Kingsman. I mean, you and I applied for the same job. We worked the same job. I was doing exactly what you were doing and then I got the proposition from Arthur on Merlin’s recommendation. They told me they’d offer you the position if I didn’t take it. What was I supposed to do? I thought I’d lose my job, so I signed on, complete with a non-disclosure clause in the contract.”

“No one ever approached me,” Eggsy says, stopping at the foot of the bed.

“No, I know,” Roxy answers. “I took the job.”

“That’s fucked up though. Isn’t that coercion?”

“Not really. I wasn’t in any danger of losing my regular job or anything, not that I realised that at the time. It’s- They sort of groom potential agents at these more or less ‘innocent’ companies and then it’s up to the person to decide whether they want the job or not. For example, Bedivere was offered and chose not to. They still need competent workforce to run the honest businesses.”

“So, you could quit?”

“Yes. I haven’t because I like the work. It’s meaningful, pays well, takes you around the world.” Her words slow as though she’s picturing every word.

What Eggsy sees is Harry: laughing on a video in Laos, murmuring apologies over a sudden business trip with promises of five star dinner on his return, showing up at his front door with a bouquet of roses that must have cost a fortune. He should ask, but she looks tired and Harry is not her problem.

Roxy sighs. “You know, Merlin is scrambling to sort out the mess I’ve caused. I feel terrible about it, especially for you. In a way, I’m relieved though. I never wanted to keep this from you. I know it’s not much, but I can only say I’m sorry.”

“Rox… Ya didn’t do any of this on purpose. I ain’t happy, but I’m not exactly mad either.” Eggsy isn’t entirely sure how he feels. “How- how long has this been goin’ on for?”

“Five or six months, maybe. Most of it was training anyway, weekends in the country. I’ve only been doing confidential stuff for a couple months.”

Eggsy considers that for a moment, glosses over their interactions in that time and finds nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe she’s simply that good at what she does or maybe it doesn’t matter as far as the two of them are concerned.

“A couple months, huh? I’ve known you for almost two years, so I think we can catch up on a couple months.”

“Thank you,” Roxy says, “for giving me a chance and for the first aid.”

“What else was I gonna do?”

“It’s not that obvious to me,” she sniffles and wipes at the corners of her eyes. “What about Harry?”

That, Eggsy has to admit, is not as simple a case. “I don’t know yet. I haven’t really had time to think about it, and we haven’t spoken either. He went after…”

“Gazelle.”

“Yes. I guess I don’t need to ask if he’s also an agent.”

“That’s why I went to his house today.”

“I’m also guessing he didn’t join up a couple months ago either.”

“No.” Roxy falls silent and Eggsy doesn’t have much to fill the void, so he takes his leave, trying and failing to keep his heart from growing heavy. It’s starting to look a lot like there are no easy aspects to their current situation.

 

* * *

 

 

Eggsy finds Merlin waiting for him with three empty cups of coffee, two coats and the car keys. This time the cab doesn’t have a driver. It’s only the two of them sat in the front with flashes of street lights ghosting over their faces as they drive through London. They’re already halfway to Eggsy’s in complete quietude, when Merlin finally decides to say something.

“I got in touch with Harry earlier.”

“Oh yeah?” Eggsy asks, trying to sound impassive despite the maelstrom of emotion whirling within him. The irritation he can’t hide and the worry bleeds through no matter what, though he manages to keep the hope lodged firmly in his chest.

“It might not be my place to say, but he is worried about you.”

Eggsy is tempted to say, “Let him,” but stays quiet and turns to look out the window instead. He’s exhausted just thinking about Harry and the warmth of his coat is working wonders in luring him towards sleep. He suspects that comfort will be gone as soon as he’s home alone with all his thoughts.

Merlin continues unfazed. “In light of what happened today, the club will have to be closed tomorrow. It might be best for you to take a couple days off anyway, to sort yourself out.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed sorting. As far as I’m concerned, you lot are the ones that blew it.”

“I don’t disagree on that point, but that doesn’t turn my life upside down,” Merlin says. He sounds infuriatingly calm to Eggsy when he says: “For me, this is a regular day on the job.”

“Sucks for you,” Eggsy mutters, grinding his teeth.

“You’re angry now and should be. It won’t look the same once you have all the facts.”

“I would’ve bloody liked to have any of ‘em at all because I’m trusted, not because Roxy came barging in with a stab wound. In the end, you’ve got fuck all to do with me and Harry’s been lying to me this whole time, so I don’t really need a lecture on anger management right now, bruv.”

They’re on Eggsy’s street by now and he’s itching to get out of the car.

“You’re not wrong about that,” Merlin concedes. “However, that does not negate the fact that you don’t know the whole story yet. But I’ll let you figure that for yourself.”

He offer Eggsy a plastic card.  _ G. Unwin _ , it reads,  _ visitor pass. _ He doesn’t recognise the photo of himself on it, though he recognises the logo at the bottom of the keycard from the hospital earlier.

“It’s valid for four days,” Merlin says and the implied ‘don’t waste it’ goes without saying.

“Okay,” Eggsy says and lets it disappear in his pocket. He reaches for the door handle, flooding the car with harsh night air. “Thanks for the ride.”

Merlin nods as Eggsy slams the door shut and takes a deep breath. He has the distinct feeling he’s on his own from here, the last fragments of the illusion that everything might be a simple misunderstanding slipping away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooooo I have good news and bad news. The good news is I'm not a complete failure as a human being and therefore have more uni interviews to attend. Unfortunately for you, this means another delay in updates. However, going back to the positives, this is the last delay to be expected for this story before the end.
> 
> My interview is scheduled really badly in relation to my updating schedule, so the next update will be on February 12th. After that I plan to return to the biweekly schedule I had going all summer and hopefully we can see this story through swiftly.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again & still very sorry for that long wait. There shouldn't be any more of those in the future. Thank you so much to everyone for your patience so far! Unfortunately, this chapter is on the short side, but you'll see why that is and there's still plenty going on.
> 
> A big thank you to [childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) (whom I met in London during my absence) for BETAing this chapter. Any remaining mistakes are entirely down to my own clumsy fingers.

Waking up to a new day is almost cruel, because for a moment Eggsy doesn’t remember. Then, rolling over to check his phone - half a dozen text messages from Roxy, a voicemail from Harry - it all comes rushing in like a bad headache you don’t notice until you move and he represses the distinct urge to retch.

“I can’t do this,” Eggsy tells JB even as he’s already climbing out of bed, tired and desperate to get moving. He’s not entirely sure how long he has been out, only that he had eventually, at least for a little while, fallen asleep. It had to have been after three o’clock, which is when he pulled the batteries out of the back of the clock so the little phospholuminescent marks on the hands would stop dragging out his agony.

Harry Hart has effectively broken his heart and time has only appeared to make it worse.

“Eggsy,” Harry says now, voice a touch grainy through the phone speaker, “I’m sorry. Truly. I don’t know what else to tell you. I suppose there is nothing-”

Eggsy  _ almost _ hangs up and presses delete on the voicemail, his eyes suspiciously hot. In the background, someone honks a car horn and another honks back in the perfect C major  of a road rage symphony.

Distracted by those same noises, Harry seems to materialise in a time and place five hours ago. “Oh, yes: I’m in America. It is a lot further than I would want to be, considering… Cowardly, really.”

Something they can agree on, Eggsy thinks bitterly. There’s a duffle bag of his things from Harry’s place sitting in the parlour. Someone had brought it in yesterday in his absence; a complete stranger had broken into his flat to return his dog and his paperbacks like he’s gone through a breakup. Maybe he has; Eggsy hasn’t quite decided yet. He also hasn’t had the  heart to check if any of his things are missing from what he’s gotten back, doesn’t know when he’d ever find the strength to message Harry asking for a shirt forgotten in his laundry hamper or a snapback left dangling from the coatrack.

In America, Harry says, “I know I’ve really made a mess of things. It’s unforgivable, and yet I ask you to do just that. Not right away, of course, but perhaps in time. I imagine it won’t mean much to you at the moment, Eggsy, but I love you. I want you to know that. That was never a lie. Please-”

He deletes the rest of the message on autopilot as if he has been burned and this is simply him jerking his hand out of the flame. He knows the spiel, more or less. It’s never had his name in it before though.

 

* * *

Eggsy goes to sit with Roxy twice that week. The first time is Wednesday, the air awkward and raw, just like Roxy standing up for the first time. He comes in before she’s heaved herself off the edge of the bed, so the nurse coerces him into helping Roxy instead of herself, and Eggsy ends up standing there carrying most of Roxy’s weight before she finds an equilibrium. Even then Roxy has all her weight balanced precariously on one leg and a vice grip on Eggsy’s forearms.

A little later, Roxy firmly on crutches, they’re trawling down a hallway, talking in quiet voices.

“Harry called,” Eggsy blurts, because he doesn’t know who else to tell. The situation is tied into a web of confidential context so dense he couldn’t ever hope to explain it to anyone else. Particularly when he’s considered even the bare bones of his relationship with Harry too difficult to disclose to most people.

But Roxy has been there from the start, and now she might witness the end as well.

“Well, what did he say?” she asks, voice schooled to diplomatic neutrality. The only expression on her face is the occasional twitch of pain.

Eggsy wishes she’d give him something. “It went to voicemail,” he says.

She raises an eyebrow at him.

“I was asleep,” Eggsy continues. It sounds like a defence even though he is certain he wouldn’t have picked up the phone even if he had been awake. “‘S mostly groveling. An off-hand remark that he’s in America.”

“America?”

“Yeah. Maybe there was more. I deleted it halfway through.”

“What, why?”

“Somethin’ ‘bout how he loves me,” Eggsy mutters, shaking his head. “A joke is what it is.”

“Eggsy-”

“I couldn’t take it, okay?” he snaps, taking a few brisk steps that leave Roxy dragging behind. He immediately feels bad, a voice in his head whispering he’s lashing out. “I’m sorry,” Eggsy says, turning back to wait for her to catch up. “This isn’t your fault.”

“It’s okay. You’re hurt -”

“That ain’t an excuse.”

“- and I did sort of set the whole thing in motion.”

That things would have eventually snowballed on their own, goes unsaid. With how things  _ have _ transpired, Eggsy tries to let go of his anger and Roxy works to push her guilt away in turn. Between the two of them and the squeak of her linoleum floor, it almost works.

By Friday, tensions between them have eased further, and when Eggsy visits the hospital again, it’s on the heels of a morning texting pictures of milkless cereal and soggy oatmeal back and forth with profound captions. It’s almost like old times, until he’s back in the strange underground clinic, deserted as ever.

“Hey,” he says, finding Roxy in her room dressed in her own clothes watching reruns of Judge Rinder.

“Oh, hey! You came at the perfect time: They’re doing the big twist after the break.”

Eggsy rolls his eyes. “Ain’t I lucky.”

“What? I’m bored.”

Bored isn’t the word he would use for recovering from a stab wound, but then he’s the sort of guy to snog someone senseless while concussed. Eggsy moves a tote bag out of the unused and unmoved visitor’s chair onto the bed, catching a glimpse of Roxy’s sticker coated kindle and a phone charger, personal belongings probably gathered and delivered by the same type of anonymous face that cleared his stuff out of Harry’s house.

“I’m getting discharged later today,” Roxy announces over the commercials, “Apparently my crutch work is satisfactory.”

“You gonna be alright on your own already?”

Roxy shrugs. “I’ll manage. There should be a lifetime supply of ramen in the cabinet with the crap wine and enough milk for tea.”

“Well, text me if ya need anything. I haven’t exactly got much to do right now.”

“You didn’t quit your job, did you?” Roxy asks with genuine concern. It’s the first time his future at Kingsman has come up since the incident at Harry’s house, best avoided so far.

“No, Merlin told me to take the week, but I don’t know if I’m going back. I s’pose I’ll have to decide by Monday.”

“Eggsy, you’ve worked at the club for nearly two years and you’re damn _ good _ at it too. You shouldn’t give that up. Unless it’s a moral objection-”

“No, it’s not that,” Eggsy cuts in. “It’s all the lies. I mean, I get you, and Merlin owes me nothing.” He sighs, telltale.

“You’re worried about Harry,” Roxy says.

Eggsy nods, unable to form words in the face of her pity.

“Have you talked to him?”

“No.”  _ Not yet. _

“Has he called again?”

“No.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move. Process. You can’t avoid him forever.” When he opens his mouth to object, she hastily adds: “Of course you  _ can _ , but you shouldn’t. It won’t solve anything.”

“Rox, honestly, I don’t know if there’s anything left  _ to  _ solve.”

“So, what: it’s over then?” He’s probably only projecting the heartache into her voice. “The end of Eggsy and Harry.”

It sounds so wrong - ‘ _ the end of an era’  _ and he wants to say _ ‘no’ _ \- and yet there aren’t any other options for Eggsy to consider. “He lied to me, Rox. I’m not the trusting sort to start with, but I trusted Harry, and he’s spun this fucking farce all along.” He swallows around the scratchy words, thoughts collapsing in the back of his throat as soon as they’re formed.

“Oh Eggsy,” She shifts to drag him into an awkward hug, murmuring,  “I’m not trying to defend him, but I don’t for one moment think he meant you any harm. I may not have been able to tell you about Kingsman, but there was nothing against me warning you off Harry, and by God, I would have if I thought he was dodgy.”

Drawing away from her, Eggsy starts to say, “It’s not your responsibility-” only to have her cut in with a shake of her head. “You’re my best friend. If not me, who? And yes, Harry did lie. You can be angry about that. If it’s too much to forgive, it’s too much to forgive. Those are odds he was willing to take. All in all, though, he’s not a bad person and there are certainly things he was telling the truth about.”

The words ‘ _ I love you _ ’ skitter across Eggsy’s mind like sparks on concrete. Can that be enough though?

“‘S worse somehow, ya know,” Eggsy says, “knowing not all of it was lies. There’s all these moments, these things he’s said, just playin’ on repeat and I’m left second guessing  _ everything _ . And I’ve got no bottom line to go by, no clue what’s real and what’s made up. So, I don’t think it matters whether he lied about certain things, ‘cause, in the end, I can’t trust him on any of it.”

Eggsy realises he has, in essence, articulated the feeling in the pit of his stomach, dragging heavy. Eggsy thinks he wants to vomit (again), or maybe smoke a cigarette. He definitely wants to stop  _ thinking _ . Underneath it all, the compulsion to crawl into Harry’s arms and die there whispers in the treacherous voice of an instinct.

Roxy’s hand on his arm feels entirely wrong - too small, too cool - and he has the unwelcome revelation that Harry Hart is no longer someone easily discarded.

 

* * *

The loneliness doesn’t set in right away. After all, it’s only been six days and some part of Eggsy is living in the routine of Harry being gone for a week or two at a time while another is numb from where he’s severed off the idea of a future together. Sometimes, when he’s lying in bed at night (or in the afternoons, because he does that now) reflexively checking his phone, Eggsy feels like he’s bleeding out.

He never did make it far in the marines with how much his mum worried, but this is what he imagines being shot would be like. That would at least have been over a lot sooner. This wound stops and starts up again, ripping open with excruciating force every single time.

As things are, he’s soldiering on, shivering against an English winter. Night walks with JB are a semblance of normalcy  in spite of the crap weather, a continuum from the  _ before _ all the way through to the  _ after _ , and Eggsy draws their rounds out a little longer to simply clear his head for ten bloody minutes.

On the other side of the street, three girls bustle past cursing and laughing at once, doe footed with alcohol. One of them tugs at the hem of her dress while another breathlessly begs for a break, leaning on the front of the closest building. Him and Roxy have done that before - dizzy from dancing all night and suddenly freezing in spite of their sweaty youth, toppling over, wild and free - and Eggsy has a moment of nostalgia for careless drunkenness.

Coming up to his block, he wonders if he’d feel better couch surfing with a bottle of gin instead of eating pizza pockets alone in his kitchen when he can’t fall asleep for so long he’s hungry again. Maybe Roxy would put him up for a while.

His hand stumbles on the keys in his coat pocket. From the shelter of the sunken doorway, a few steps above the pavement, Eggsy hears his own name in Harry’s voice, and something within him stutters.

“Eggsy,” Harry repeats, firmer, and Eggsy is aware of the clatter of his keys hitting the concrete over the scramble of his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Excuse me while I go have a cry.
> 
> Next update is in two weeks.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shorter chapter this week. These emotional bits are nerve-wracking to write for me and I tend to have to expand quite a bit of time on rewriting chunks of them, so they end up a bit stubby. Hopefully the content makes up for that. [Childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) was kind enough to BETA again for me this week and deserves much love for it. (Like I said, these chapters are not exactly in my comfort zone and I'm eternally grateful.) 
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy!

There’s a moment where Eggsy is not quite there, floating somewhere far away, his mind is ringing. It doesn’t register as an alarm bell at first. Then Harry is offering him the keys, their fingers brushing around the edges, and he’s hit with a surge of panic.

“What are you doing here?” Eggsy manages to ask, words familiar enough that they tumble out of his mouth without effort.

“Trying to make things right,” he says simply and buries his hands in his coat pockets when he notices Eggsy still staring at them.

Eggsy pulls his eyes away from where they’ve hit the concrete and up to Harry’s face. He looks five years older standing there now, like he hasn’t slept a wink in the week he’s been gone. The thought is simultaneously comforting and painful. On the one hand, Eggsy is flat out furious, on the other, all he wants to do is check Harry over and see he isn’t hurt. Even now, when Eggsy itches to do something stupidly reckless like giving him a shiner, no one else is allowed to injure Harry.

It occurs to him, it’s his turn to speak and he hasn’t said anything in awhile. “I’m so fucking angry at you right now,” Eggsy says at last and falls flat on the second half of the sentence.

“I know. I... I _know_ ,” Harry says, “I’ve made a horrendous mistake, which is stunningly clear in hindsight.”

“Yeah, well.”

“That is to say, at the time I genuinely thought I was doing what was best. And not even for me, but for you-”

“No, don’t do that,” Eggsy cuts in, voice low, but filling rapidly with anger. “Don’t you  _ dare _ do that, spin it all ‘round on me. No one forced you to lie to me and you did it anyway. That’s a choice  _ you _ made.”

“Yes, I did. I realise that. But I didn’t do it for fun, or because I felt like it. Have you even considered my vantage point? There were no good options for me and I tried to do right by you; telling you about Kingsman before Merlin did would have interfered with your career.”

Eggsy laughs bitterly, a sound that’s carved right out of his chest and leaves him hollow. “That’s rich. It’s not even a career I was interested in! You can’t excuse doing a shitty thing by arguin’ it puts me in a better position for something I didn’t know I was bein’ what, tested for? D’you realise how fucked up that is? Of both you and Merlin, actually, to assume what I’m gonna do with my life. In case this is still unclear to you: you’ve cocked this whole thing up - this thing I was so fuckin’ happy about - for a freakin’ hypothetical I couldn’t give two shits about. But you’ve missed that somehow, haven’t you? I’m angry with you, Harry. I’m so  _ angry _ , and you just don’t get it. I mean, fuck, you just up and left.”

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Harry says, and if Eggsy hadn’t had the time to learn that a composed air means nothing with someone like Harry, whose eyes are so expressive they speak seven sentences for every one he actually says out loud, he might have mistaken Harry’s distance for aloofness. He isn’t sure it would hurt any more than what he’s seeing now.

“I thought telling you would have been selfish,” Harry continues, “You’re right, I can’t make choices for other people, but I don’t have the right to take them away either. You are so young Eggsy, and Kingsman had a whole life to offer you. Whether you take it or not should be your choice. That’s why I didn’t tell you. I couldn’t have lived knowing I’d taken that away from you, and it was a risky choice, I know, and it did not play out well, but I can’t regret something I did with the best of intentions.”

“Whether what you did is wrong doesn’t depend on your intentions. It doesn’t make it as bad maybe, but it’s still not  _ right _ . If it was going to be such a conflict of interests, you should’ve stayed away from me in the first place. If your argument is gonna be that you tried to keep me out of it for my own good, you shouldn’t even have come into my life, ‘cause you knew from the start it was gonna be a problem. And still you pursued me. That’s what you lot do: choose to be selfish until selflessness justifies your bad actions and you can play some sort of martyr. I didn’t need protectin’, Harry. I needed you to trust me, and I needed you to honor the trust I placed in you.”

“It wasn’t-” Harry starts, but Eggsy shakes his head.

“I don’t really care what you have to say, Harry.” He closes his fingers around the keys experimentally, wondering if he can really do this. “The bottom line is you clearly don’t respect the fact that I’m free to make my own choices based on nothing less than the whole truth,” Eggsy says and stops to take a deep breath for the big blow, “and that’s why I’m breaking up with you.”

Harry, for an instant, recoils, and Eggsy feels a bitter satisfaction at having tripped him into a quiet: “What?”

“I don’t ever want to see you again,” Eggsy says and lets himself into the house.

 

* * *

The weight of the exchange doesn’t hit him immediately. It trudges behind him all the way up the stairs and through the front door. Eggsy takes off his coat, bends down to undo JB’s collar, and hangs them both on the wall. He makes a perfectly calm cup of tea in a kitchen that is his own but feels foreign. He is fine. Then he goes to bed, or tries to, and, instead of falling asleep, he starts crying.

It’s the ugly sort that pours out unfiltered, coming from somewhere so deep within it has the force of an avalanche.

 

* * *

He sleeps a few fitful, dehydrated, and overheated hours before he wakes up completely delirious around three. Even then, Eggsy instantly knows something is desperately wrong, though it takes a few minutes to place the sensation. Why the other shoe always has to drop several times, in slow motion, he doesn’t know. Eggsy checks his phone out of habit, hoping against hope and himself Harry will have called him two dozen times and sent paragraphs worth of apologies.

Nothing.

The blank screen sends a surge of shame through him as Eggsy catches himself in his own betrayal. He isn’t supposed to want this.

It carries on much the same way for a week. The days are easier to while away watching Jeremy Kyle and freezing his bollocks off in a park with his phone left on mute on the kitchen table. It doesn’t stop him from thinking about it. It doesn’t stop him from walking past the underground and mentally counting the stops to Harry’s house. It’s always a long enough journey in theory to sober him up before he even has the impulse to attempt it. One time he’s on his way home from coffee with Roxy and, already sat on the correct line, he purposefully misses his stop, whizzing down the tracks further than he ought to. Eggsy makes it halfway to Harry’s before he comes to his senses.

The nights are far worse for how they drag on endlessly. A hectic city gone to bed ditches Eggsy in the treacherous crawl of his own thoughts and the bits of sleep he does get aren’t much of a comfort. At times, it seems as though the dreams are worse than reality, or maybe it’s the drifting between having and not having Harry by his side that wears Eggsy down into a listless mess.

Sometimes, when he wakes at an ungodly hour with nothing to distract him, he finds himself scrolling backwards through the pictures in his phone. They’re mostly of Roxy, or him, or food - sometimes all three with two dopey, white smiles, their eyes alight in the flash of the camera at night. Here and there a cluster of JB from a dozen angles and distances surfaces, and, somewhere between all that, is Harry.

They’re relatively undocumented as a couple, mostly existing in sneaky pictures of one or the other blissfully asleep. A select few times, Eggsy had ambushed Harry in the middle of some hideously pedestrian task on a quiet afternoon to demand a picture be taken. In those, Harry looks thoroughly uncomfortable pretending to read on the sofa and trying not to pose for the photo. Looking back through the bits of Harry Eggsy has managed to capture, he realises he hasn’t actually gotten any of  _ Harry _ in the frame.

From not long before Christmas, Eggsy finds one of the only videos on his phone and recognises Harry’s kitchen from the still in the thumbnail. He has a couple of these bad films, all short little bursts of their lives, and Eggsy presses play against his better judgement.

It starts in the foyer, Eggsy following JB until he spots Harry in the kitchen and the phone swivels gracelessly as he diverts his course. “What’re you doing?” he asks out of frame, closing in on Harry’s turned back. Peeking over his shoulder, the camera slides almost uncomfortably close to Harry’s face, only a turning cheek and the bottom curve of his glasses left of a moment Eggsy experienced in full. Harry’s smile is still electric.

“I’m cooking so we don’t starve to death,” Harry murmurs and turns back to the food. A glimpse of it is caught on camera - cream cheese mushrooms, Eggsy remembers those. “I see you’re playing around with that camera again.”

“Yeah, and I’m havin’ fun too,” Eggsy says good naturedly and takes two steps back to get a better shot of Harry. There is a moment where the camera shakes; Eggsy recalls trying not to laugh. In the video, he says: “Hey, Harry, I’m curious about somethin’. Do ya ever eat the cream cheese when you’re stuffin’ the mushrooms?”

Harry frowns, brief and shallow, before he says, “That would be unhygienic if you’re only using the one tool,” his face smoothing out.

“Uh-huh, is that so?” The camera shakes again, half from the giggle that spills out of Eggsy and half because he leans forward to swipe a smudge of cream cheese from just above Harry’s lip. “I was just thinking ‘cause you’ve got something right there,” Eggsy says.

He knows off screen he licks his finger clean, the sound of it faintly audible over Harry’s flustered explanation about excess stuffing, his face reddening mercilessly. Harry Hart, probably the most graceful person Eggsy knows, and here he has proof he’s not infallible.

Knowing that he broke through Harry’s defences amid all the deception to create organic moments like these makes him wonder yet again about where the lines between real and fake blurred between them, where Harry lost control and skidded toward something he couldn’t keep contained and whether Eggsy had smiled at him then.

 

* * *

 

He makes it to Sunday, mostly sleepless and irritated by the way he itches for his phone nonstop. Roxy does her best to distract him, and Eggsy’s even started texting Ryan and Jamal again, but nothing is enough to keep him from hovering over Harry’s name. He’s going through withdrawal with his drug of choice is sitting there on speed dial at his fingertips every minute of the day. It’s supposed to get easier - at least that is what he’s told - not that he can see it.

So, Eggsy does the only thing he knows to: he packs his life into a bag and leaves. It’s not difficult to figure out where to go once he’s moving, his oldest pair of sneakers molding easily to his feet and his favourite snapback fending off a gritty drizzle. He’s a little worse for wear, mostly damp, and has JB tucked into the side of his coat when he rings the doorbell. He knows instantly his choice is right when the door opens.

“Mum.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next update is in two weeks :)


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have somehow emerged from hell, because every word of this chapter was like pulling teeth for me. Let it be known I have nearly cried from frustration and still made it (given it was by the power of some very dubious late night writing I don't care to examine too closely).
> 
> [Childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) seems to have become a more permanent BETA by accident, so I'm gonna slap a thank you note everywhere from here on out. Count yourselves lucky; it saves you from having to decipher cut off, typo riddled, and very sleep deprived sentences.

Eggsy must look a lot worse than he thinks, because when his mum sees him standing there, she takes two steps back and says, “I’ll put Daisy down,” in the sort of quiet, measured tone that always meant  _ trouble _ when he was growing up. Eggsy is too tired to tell her it isn’t that serious, because right now it feels like the worst thing he’s been through in years and he wants to be worried about for a moment, held and cherished and understood.

He lets himself into the flat, abandons his duffle bag by his shoes, and sets JB loose to let him sniff everything within his limited reach. His mum’s new flat is still technically unfamiliar territory to the both of them, though it feels like home to Eggsy: the tea jars lined up the same way as he remembers them from the old flat, the ratty tea towel he’d embroidered with a very bad family portrait in fourth grade jammed into a cabinet door in the absence of a hook on the wall, and his chipped Transformers mug still sitting at the back of the cabinet.

Eggsy makes two cups of tea on autopilot and sits down at the table staring at his phone, face down on the plywood, willing it to vibrate. When his mum finally reappears from his sister’s room ten minutes later, Eggsy guiltily shifts his eyes away and forces himself to focus. She’s trying to scan him for externally visible injuries, he realises, thinking back to when he told her about getting jumped by Dean’s goons after he hadn’t quite known how to explain away certain bruises.

“Mum, it’s not that bad,” he tries to say. It feels like a lie, even though, objectively speaking, he knows he’s been through much worse. He could be beaten half to death in a grimy old alley, for one.

“Sure don’t look like it, poppet,” Michelle says pointedly, but takes the diplomatic route and sits down without pushing it. She wraps her hands around her teacup as a silent invitation for Eggsy to explain.

“It’s just a bad breakup,” Eggsy says and thinks that’s really not a way to describe it.

He hates the way his mum softens when he says the word ‘breakup’ and leans forward to murmur: “You were seein’ someone?” A few weeks ago he would’ve flushed and smiled at how hopeful she sounds. Now, all he can bring himself to do is nod numbly.

“It wasn’t years or anythin’, but we got pretty close quickly. We broke up a week ago and I haven’t slept much since,” he explains, “And Rox had an accident last week too, so I’ve been in and out of hospital with her. It’s, uh, all a bit shit right now. I didn’t know where else to go. If I could maybe just stay the week...”

“Eggsy, you’re always welcome home; you know that. I just wish you’d tell me about stuff like this,” Michelle says, and he feels a stab of guilt thinking back to his early childhood when he used to sit at the kitchen table pouring every thought in his heart out into the open for hours on end. Sometimes he wonders whether it was a softness that’s fundamentally incompatible with the nature of life, but, seeing it in Daisy years later, Eggsy wishes the people around him hadn’t trodden it out of him.

“I meant to, but everythin’ happened so fast- and, well-” he shrugs- “I’ve just kinda been busy tryin’ to sort things out since things went pear shaped.” Eggsy takes a long sip of his tea.

“Do you wanna talk about it now?”

He takes a moment to consider the option, then shakes his head. “Don’t think I can right now. But if you could keep my phone for me, that would help. I keep checking it even though I don’t want to.”

“You know, if you blocked the number-”

“I don’t want to,” Eggsy says. He grinds his teeth, ashamed of the admission, his own hypocrisy rising flaming hot on his cheeks. He’s lectured his mum half a dozen times about this very subject in the past, yet he can’t even follow his own advice. Luckily, she says nothing about it, only reaches for the phone still sat between them and drags it to her end of the table.

Eggsy immediately feels an odd panic building, but still manages to say: “Rox might call. I’m supposed to help her with physiotherapy exercises at home, so I’ll need to know about that. Anyone else is unimportant.”

“Anyone?”

“Yes, anyone.”

 

* * *

 

The mess of the whole situation radiates outward, all through Kingsman, until even Merlin can no longer pretend to be able to ignore it. He’s only had to put Harry in line once in their twenty-year-friendship, but he supposes the second instance has been long overdue anyway. Whiskey therapy can only get one so far. He rings the doorbell to Harry’s townhouse for the second time, holding the button down impatiently. It rings inside, long and shrill, but nothing stirs.

“Harry,” Merlin shouts and forcefully bangs the knocker a few times for good measure. “Harry, open up! I know you’re in there.”

The part where he’s tracked Harry’s phone goes unmentioned, slightly too suspicious a thing to be yelled outside someone’s door in an upscale neighbourhood. Any neighbourhood, probably. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Merlin mutters under his breath, digging around his messenger bag for the very illegal but very handy spare skeleton key he’s coded to the company’s electronic locks.

He simply doesn’t always have the time to convince people he’d be more useful on the side of the door he isn’t on, particularly when said people are likely sulking in their upstairs bedroom nursing heartache with a side of hangover. The lock clicks obediently in his hands and Merlin lets himself into the house.

It’s not as bad as he expected, though his expectations might be skewed based on his memory. For one, there isn’t any blood on the floor. There also aren’t any of the signs of a horrific breakup he vaguely remembers from his last misguided foray into the realm of romance: no clothes on the floor, no alcohol containers scattered about, no one passed out on the living room floor.

Either it’s a good sign or this is just the calm before the storm. Merlin had only felt better  _ after _ he’d ended up in hospital, because apparently ice pavements and melancholy drinking are a great recipe for splitting one’s skull open.

“Harry, I swear if you’ve OD’d on your morphine, I’ll personally bring you back to life just to kill you myself,” he shouts up at the stairs just in case Harry somehow hasn’t heard him. It doesn’t do to startle agents, not that there is much about Harry to be startled when Merlin finds him, awake and in bed, glaring daggers at the doorway before Merlin even appears in it.

“What are you waiting for, a bedtime story?” Merlin asks.

“What do you want?”

“To not have you, me, Eggsy, or Roxy be out of a job, maybe world peace, not that any of you care. I’m making tea and you best be downstairs by the time I’m done.”

It’s a threat without consequence, but Harry still appears in the kitchen five minutes later, smoothed out to his usual self save for the bags under his eyes. “Well?”

Merlin offers him tea before he says: “You need to talk to Eggsy.”

“I already did. He... broke up with me.”

“Okay, not ideal,” Merlin concedes, “Doesn’t negate the fact that I’m down two people at the club if he doesn’t come back, which- I gave him a week and he’s turned it into two and a half with no sign of a return. He’s angry at you, so-”

“Merlin, there is nothing I can do about it,” Harry says. He’s the kind of forceful that doesn’t leave space to bargain, and Merlin takes a moment to assess him properly.

“That bad?”

“Probably worse.” Harry takes a sip of his tea, gathering his thoughts. “He wants nothing to do with me. He’s past lashing out with tears and fists. There’s nothing besides justified, calculated anger.”

Merlin thinks he’s never seen Harry so miserable.

“How have you done this several times? I want to go back and gut my past self for thinking this would work out.”

“There’s a reason I don’t anymore.”

“I don’t even care about me,” Harry says, resigned. He abandons his tea and paces, caged in a way Merlin hasn’t seen him in years, maybe even an entire decade. “I hate the thought of what I’ve done to him. I had no right-” he cuts himself off and looks to Merlin, silently begging him to tell him otherwise.

“This isn’t a job where you get to keep civilians close without lying to them.”

“I know that, in theory. Always have, but it’s never mattered before. I’ve really cocked this up spectacularly.” Harry stops pacing and runs a hand over his face. He turns to Merlin, single minded focus returning when he asks: “Can you promise me that, if if he wants to stay on at the club, Eggsy won’t get into any trouble, professionally, because of me?”

“You know I can’t make promises like that,” Merlin says. They both know he has a soft spot though, and so he adds, “I’ll do my damndest, but if Arthur gets wind of any of this, it’s out of my hands.”

“That’s all I ask.”

A quiet moment passes between them before Harry asks, “So why are you here? I assume it’s not strictly Eggsy.”

“No,” Merlin agrees. He’s too busy a man for non-alcoholic social visits, during the day no less. “You’re expected at HQ tomorrow morning, booked for a transatlantic flight out.”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “More snooping on American soil?”

“Yep. You’ve got a congregation to crash. You could always try repenting while you’re there.”

“Merlin,” Harry says, “the last time I set foot in a church, I shattered a three hundred year old stained glass depiction of the Virgin Mary and accidentally set two pews on fire.”

Merlin clears his throat. “I don’t recall it being an accident.”

“What time is my flight?”

 

* * *

Eggsy jerks awake at the sound of the front door opening. He’s disoriented for a moment, walls staring him down from unfamiliar directions as the lock rattles and finally falls back into place.

“Sorry, babe, didn’t mean to wake you,” his mum says, and he suddenly remembers where he is. Why he’s there.

“Don’t worry,” Eggsy mutters, “Must’ve dozed off after Dais’ went down.” He can’t have been out long, Eastenders still seems to be on the telly. The extempore kip has still upset his back, since the couch is far too short for him, the seams in all the wrong places too. Eggsy hauls himself up and goes to help his mum with the groceries.

It comes naturally, really. Even though he’s only stayed with her for a few days, they’ve already slipped back into their old routines like nothing’s changed. Eggsy hoists bottles of fizzy drinks and water into the cupboard while his mum stuffs something into the freezer.

“Your phone’s been blowin’ up all afternoon,” she tells him, or rather mutters into the fridge. “It was a bloke, so I figured it could wait.”

He wonders if it’s Harry, then decides he doesn’t want it to be, but by that time his heart rate has already picked up by several notches. His mum continues, saying: “The texts were sorta ambiguous, but after the third call I started worryin’ a bit.”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” Eggsy says and tries not to demand his phone back, suddenly anxious to check every word for himself.

“He left a voicemail,” Michelle says, “I just wanted to make sure no one was gettin’ the life beaten out of them in an alley, so I listened to it. Posh sounding bloke, seemed polished and  _ very apologetic _ .”

“Mum-”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

They’re no longer putting things away, but rather staring at each other in the cramped kitchen.

“Dunno. With Dean- It wasn’t right at the time. And then… I haven’t properly fancied anyone in years,” Eggsy says like it’s supposed to make a difference.

“But, you know I love you, right? And wouldn’t treat you any different, no matter who you wanna go out with?”

He nods, because it is what he’s has always suspected, but he’s never actually had the courage to bring his bisexuality up before. What with a niggling worry always there at the back of his mind. Recently, he’d almost managed to bury it under the sheer weight of his love for Harry. He’d come so close to confessing the whole affair probably half a dozen times, but always gotten caught up in himself before he actually managed to get the words out.

He supposes, in the end, Harry is still what gave him away, even if it isn’t at all in the way Eggsy expected. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway,” Eggsy says, in spite of the fact that he feels immense relief and the distinct need to cry all at once.

“What happened with him?”

The answer to that question is so complex, Eggsy just smiles, immediately exhausted from thinking of ways to condense his and Harry’s relationship into anything less than every moment of the last five odd months, because that’s how he thinks of it now: a series of uncertain fragments. “Too much,” he says simply. “What did he say in the voicemail?”

“That you were right about everything, and that he’s at the airport,” she says, clearly expecting some form of an explanation.

“Can you delete it for me?” Eggsy asks.

“‘S that what you want?”

“No, but, mum, I need you to do it anyway.”

“Alright.” She doesn’t hesitate or put it off for a later moment, but pulls his phone out right then and there.

Some part of Eggsy wants to retract his plea and steal the phone back, while another, comforted by his mother’s deft movements, forces him to remain still.

“Done,” she says. Eggsy doesn’t know how to feel about that.

 

* * *

 

As content as Eggsy insists he is spending his afternoons trawling through parks with Daisy and JB, dressing up frozen pizzas with extra cheese and tomatoes for dinner and doing the dishes after to the sound of the Teletubbies playing in the living room, his mum is of the opinion he isn’t allowed to stay in being reasonable all day and forces him to go out on the Friday.

Sitting on Roxy’s floor doing physiotherapy exercises at midnight is probably not what she had in mind.

“It’s so bloody frustrating not to be able to do anything,” Roxy says through gritted teeth as she slowly pushes her leg back against Eggsy’s arms bracing it, “The doctors say I’m doing well and Merlin is pleased, considering the circumstances, but that doesn’t make it any less annoying.”

She takes a moment to breathe, panting at the slightest exertion. Eggsy glances at the telly, the 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries box set they’d set up currently on one of Mr Collins’ monologues. “Stab wounds ain’t no joke.”

“I never realised how complicated they could be - the non-fatal kind, I  mean. Besides, this isn’t even one of the more complicated cases.”

“How long are you off duty recovering? I imagine Merlin is itching to have you back.”

“Oh, I’m not going back to the club,” Roxy says and Eggsy nearly drops her leg.

“What? You’ve been tryin’ to get me to stay for the last two weeks.”

“Yeah, but I literally can’t. It’s already going to take an annoying amount of time to be fully functional in a capacity I actually require, and dancing isn’t part of that. My actual job has a different physical focus, so I’m transferring once I’m back in the game.”

“So, if I stay, it’s without you,” Eggsy says, “and if I leave, Merlin’s out of two regulars.”

“I know things are sort of muddled right now. Even if we’re apart, it won’t be the end of the world.”

“I just feel like I’m losing  _ everything _ .”

Roxy props herself up on her elbows. “I am  _ not _ leaving you. I don’t ever want you to think that.”

“Rox, I thought we’ve established I ain’t mad at you. You’re hurt and that means you gotta look after yourself totally irrespective of me.”

“I can’t. In some respect, this is all my fault and I I’m not comfortable leaving you to deal with it alone. You know, last week Merlin told me about this residential rehabilitation programme out of town I was considering, but I didn’t want to go while things are like this, because you matter to me, and I know you would do the same for me. You’re here right now, helping.”

And that really does Eggsy in, because Roxy is so considerate it hurts. She’s brash sometimes and careless with strangers, but her and Eggsy together, they could battle the world together. He’s thought of it in the past, how easy it would be like that, but they aren’t meant for each other in that way. Right now it saddens him more than ever.  _ If only Harry could be like this _ , Eggsy thinks, and then,  _ but that isn’t what you love about him _ .

Roxy is fierce protectiveness and belly aching laughter, someone who blackmails him for small favours with embarrassing videos until Eggsy records leverage. They’re energy feeding off one another, and Harry is the grounding wire. Because with him, Eggsy goes soft, his molten core burning up, years of neglect pushed aside when they’re having breakfast in domestic silence that is nothing short of safe.

He loves Roxy to bits, but they’re not dependent on each other in the same way. In all the time they’ve known each other, their relationship has been about pushing one another to do what’s best for them. She’s put him back on his feet countless time, some of them quite literal, and Eggsy has always vowed to do the same for her.

He says, “Listen, I’m not your responsibility. You’re goin’ to a murderous therapy camp and you ain’t gonna worry about me, okay? Sitting around like this is killing you and I don’t want that.”

“Eggsy-”

“I promise I’ll be okay. Do it for you, because you need to get better. And do it for me, because I could never forgive myself if my emotional bullshit gets in your brilliant way. Call Merlin and tell him you’re going.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m gonna go back to work, so when you get out, I’ve got a new routine to show you. Deal?”

“Yeah, alright,” Roxy says. The hopeful hint of a smile she offers him is encouragement enough to convince him he’s doing the right thing. He’s heartbroken and she’s shattered, but they’ll get back on their feet together eventually. Eggsy shifts back into position to help her do another set.  _ Ten tiny steps at a time is still improvement _ , he reminds himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm being hauled off on a surprise trip up north for a week and my internet is likely to be dodgy at best, if I have any at all (by which I mean data to share from my phone because this house doesn't even have a shower, let alone broadband), so the next update _might_ be in three weeks. I'm obviously still aiming for two, but I'm giving y'all a head's up just in case.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I suspected, places with gravel roads aren't exactly compatible with that 4G network, so here we are a week late.
> 
> Yet again, thank you to [childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) for catching all my late night mishaps. I never learn not to try to wrangle fic when my brain is mush. Am actually mildly terrified of all the typos I'd find if I read through this whole thing again.

Returning to Kingsman feels nothing short of staking out the ruins of a once familiar place, only the place hasn’t changed at all; it’s Eggsy who’s come back a different person. It’s similar to coming home from his mum’s and realising his life has finally bisected, cut clean in two where Harry once used to be, though he’s still trying to figure out what exactly that entails. What has always been Harry’s and what is rightfully Eggsy’s isn’t all that clear, particularly when it comes to the place their lives first intersected.

Kingsman on a Wednesday morning is void of glamour - naked light bulbs lighting the sticky floors -  the way Eggsy remembers it in between shows. It takes him a day after Roxy’s departure to work up the courage to visit the club and, at first, he isn’t sure it’s the right choice. In a way, the place has become a part of him; it’s been his ticket out of a bad situation, he’s mopped these floors countless times, could navigate the stage blindfolded and drunk if necessary. He’s given it two years of his life and yet the place is little more than a front for some mysterious intelligence service with roots extending to god knows where. He’s been an ignorant prop for a play he didn’t know anyone had put on and seeing the stage for the first time with absolute clarity makes Eggsy question himself all over again even after he’s agonised over the matter for two weeks.

“Eggsy,” Merlin says and he looks exactly like he always does coming out of the back room with his clipboard, faintly startled but not the least bit alarmed. “I wasn’t expecting you here today.”

“Me neither, so where’s that put us?”

They have a two second stand off, unsure of what sort of bargain they’re about to argue, but each is determined not to draw the shorter stick. Merlin is the first to cave, folding the clipboard to his chest.

“I was going to track you down tomorrow, but since you’re here that seem to have become unnecessary,” he says, moving again with all the fluidity of a man navigating his own waters, “It’s just as well, saves me a trip. I assume you’re here to talk.”

“Something like that,” Eggsy acquiesces.

Merlin gestures towards the bar. “Would you like a drink?”

“Yeah, a drink’s probably good,” Eggsy says, drawing his hands out of his pockets. It’s an offer of truce on both ends, Merlin taking two glasses out from under the counter and reaching for their best cognac.

Eggsy asks, “Where is everyone?” as Merlin pours.

“Busy. We’re understaffed and in the midst of a corporate crisis, so I made the executive decision to gear back the work put into maintaining the branch.”

 _At least he isn’t mucking about with the truth anymore_ , Eggsy thinks as he hums noncommittally. “You’re down two regulars.”

“And several part times. So, have you come to waste my time or is this discussion worth neglecting all my outstanding tasks?” Merlin asks, blunt as ever. “Because I’ve got better things to do than watch the spectacle of your indecisive face trying not to give itself away.”

“With all due respect,” Eggsy says, holding none, “I hear you’re not really in a position to make demands right now, so I think you’ll hear me out whether or not you want to.”

“Roxy’s loyalty to you is a real pain in the arse sometimes.”

“And other times you were banking on me and her bein’ your next dream team, but life has a funny way of goin’ south at inopportune moments, don’t it? So now you’ve got whatever bloody mess you lot are involved in on your hands as well as me and Rox off the payroll of an already understaffed club. Don’t look so good from where I’m standing.”

Merlin regards him evenly for a moment before he says: “It’s a good thing this isn’t a business designed to maximise profit.” He takes a sip of his drink and Eggsy does the same. “Still, the place isn’t worthless and simply put: I’m shit out of luck,” Merlin says, “Since that’s established, we may as well get to the point. Are you coming back or not?”

“Roxy says I’m too good to leave.”

“She’s not wrong.”

“I’ve got one condition,” Eggsy says. “Well, maybe it’s a few actually, but they should be easy enough for you.” He stops to see if he’s judged the situation correctly, waits for a sign that it’s time to make an offer. Merlin inclines his head ever so slightly, a silent ‘go on’ that assures Eggsy enough to say: “I don’t want Harry turnin’ up here while I’m on shift, ever. No exceptions. Whatever business he has at the club can’t happen while I’m here. I’ve no clue what that entails on your end and, to be honest, I don’t give a fuck either. Can you arrange that?”

“The upstairs rooms-”

“I’m not talking ‘bout upstairs. All I want is the club itself, harassment free.”

Merlin grits his teeth, but doesn’t counter. His cheek twitches just above the jaw and Eggsy holds his breath because it’s a rare sign that either speaks of irredeemable irritation or a break through. “All right. I’ll cross reference anything that happens here with your schedule.”

“‘S all I’m asking for,” Eggsy says and slides off the bar stool to take his leave.

 

* * *

 

He gets Roxy on the phone properly on Sunday afternoon and it’s not a moment too soon. Eggsy is exhausted from having nothing to do outside of work, which is challenging enough as it is, and he can tell she’s much the same by the way she sounds half asleep before tea.

“I swear this is a new form of torture and the fact that I sort of like it worries me,” Roxy complains. There’s the whoosh of her head turning on a pillow, then her sigh rustling on the line. “Christ, I’d die just to stop bloody aching and quivering.”

“Is it helping though?” Eggsy asks and he can tell the note of worry in his voice instantly puts her on the defensive.

“Yeah, absolutely. It’s a great programme, but you’ve really got to work. There are four of us here at the moment; we have meals together and then we each have a two hour intensive session with the physical therapist, some see a psychologist as well, I think. It’s probably because my injury is the least difficult and I already cope badly.”

“I guess you gotta start somewhere,” Eggsy says, “You’re all... active people, right?”

“Field operatives, yes. I think most of them have been in this profession for years and just don’t know another way of living anymore. One seems to have been here before, several times from what I can tell. I don’t know if I’d have the patience. This once is already driving me nuts. All things considered, it’s a bit ridiculous, but the thing that ticks me off the most is this massive staircase I have to climb to get to my room before and after every meal. There’s technically one of those lifts for wheelchairs, but we’re advised to avoid it.

“When I got out of my session on the first day, I could barely walk even with the crutches. I had to sit on a bench at the foot of the stairs for an hour before I composed myself enough to even attempt the climb, and that was only because I was worried someone would come down for dinner and see me down there. It was so embarrassing even though no one saw me. Then I came out of session yesterday and saw Rodrigo - oh, um, he’s this big guy who's been shot in the back, has his session before mine. Anyway, he was resting on that same bench, so we sat and talked for a while. It was actually quite nice and also eye opening. Even though I’m making progress in leaps and bounds here compared to what I could do at home, it’s utterly humiliating and incredibly frustrating to have your body fail at a whim, and everyone here feels it in spite of how hard we try to hide our tremors and aches. It’s just- you know, I’m twenty-three years old. This isn’t what my life is supposed to look like. I mean, for Christ’s sake, they make me wear a panic button in case I fall. Not even my nan has one of those.”

Another rustle like she’s rolling over in bed. They’ve had dozens of nighttime conversations and hungover mornings spent garbling about the half remembered stretches of the previous evening, lonely sick days alleviated by a little mindless chatter, enough for Eggsy to know the sound of her pouring cereal and finding the remote, of bathroom sinks and blankets pulled up to her chin. He knows her well enough to sense her frustration too.

“Your nan’s in better shape than me,” Eggsy jokes and it’s enough to startle a laugh out of her. “Seriously though, you feel like it’s difficult because it is. We’re used to swinging around upside down on a pole and now you can’t even walk properly. The baseline’s moved. You’re inevitably gonna mourn it. It’s gonna make you angry too, but you’re still gonna show up to do the work and you’ll get better.”

Roxy says, “I wish I could hug you right now,” around an audible lump in her throat.

“I miss you too.”

“You keep busy though, don’t you? I don’t want you rotting away without me there.”

“Yeah, I took your advice and went back to the club. I’m tellin’ ya the whole place is fallin’ apart. Whatever’s happenin’ behind the scenes leaves me with extra hours like you wouldn’t believe. Merlin’s hiring outside staff just to keep the place runnin’ on half power.”

“That is bad.”

“I don’t know if this would be easier to deal with knowin’ what’s goin’ on, but for now I’m just doin’ my best without getting mixed up in anythin’. I really thought my days of turning a blind eye and just gettin’ by without a thought were over.”

There’s a difference between his current situation and his past of course, and they both know that, but lies are lies and willful ignorance doesn’t sit right with Eggsy no matter the case.

Roxy says: “We regress.”

 

* * *

 

One week drags into the next without warning. Eggsy works a full fifty hours, taking charge where Merlin is needed elsewhere. He has a temporary workforce to train and coordinate without any experience, but somehow they get the show running, though Merlin looks three days out on sleep even after the weekend.

During the days, Eggsy is mostly alone at the club, rehearsing and tweaking routines, trying to reassemble and modify shift schedules. He takes stunted breaks and restocks the bar to his best abilities, thinking Merlin would have a stroke over the state of the back room and the backlog on the inventory if he wasn’t too busy to bother with the club. He  still shows up in time to tend to the bar through opening hours and that’s just about the extent of his presence most days. Eggsy takes it all in stride and does what he does best: soldiers on.

He walks JB with a resigned sort of bone deep tiredness and spends the vast majority of his free time home alone, asleep. It’s a series of mindlessly efficient days that bleed together so he can’t tell another week has gone by even as he gets home in the wee hours of Sunday and counts the week conquered.

Sometimes, when he truly comes to himself for a few short moments, it all feels bizarre, but mostly he doesn’t give it a second thought. Life goes on, the year tips into February - spring just around the corner - and Eggsy realises one morning it’s been a month since he’s broken up with Harry.

 

* * *

 

The nights he gets off within an hour of closing are rare these days. Eggsy rolls out of bed mid-afternoon straight into his shoes to go to Tesco and pick his little sister up from daycare. It’s a Monday and he’s promised to have dinner at his mum’s, which may well be the highlight of his week with the way his life is unfolding as of late.

He takes the tube, eastbound, with JB peering smugly out of the warmth of his coat and a bag of shopping wedged between his legs and has the bright thought to turn on his phone that died the night before at work just when he’d left the charger at home. No messages in the tunnel between stations, not that he expects any in reach of service either.

Except, the notification boxes crowd his screen as the train pulls to a halt. Five missed calls from Merlin (strange) and two from Roxy (worrying), a text from his mum, and then they’re in the no bar zone again. It’s a bizarre enough occurrence for him to get off at the next stop, clambering his way out of the tube station to figure out what’s going on just as Roxy calls again.

“Hey! My phone died last night and I only just turned it back on,” Eggsy says, stepping out of the stream of people rushing their lives along the streets of London.

“I noticed, though you may have been dead for all I knew,” Roxy says, unmistakably on edge, “Fuck, Eggsy, you really scared me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise the world was gonna end,” he says sarcastically, but she doesn’t seem amused in the slightest, so he asks: “What’s happened?”

“I- I’m not the best person to explain it. What matters is I finally got a hold of you,” Roxy says and Eggsy thinks of Merlin. “Look, stay put for a minute and I’ll have Merlin call you back.”

“Rox-”

“Just answer your phone, okay,” she says and hangs up.

The dread for whatever is about to happen hasn’t even properly set in by the time his phone lights up again. This time it’s Merlin’s caller ID and Eggsy picks up before he can settle on the alternative of turning his phone off again because he isn’t sure he can take any more bad news right now.

“Eggsy,” Merlin says and his calm is the frigid kind that twists Eggsy’s gut into a dozen knots on a single word.

“Tell me,” Eggsy demands, not capable of forming a question, because he can’t bring himself to ask, not when Merlin called him the first time fourteen hours ago and it seems like oceans may have shifted in that time.

Eggsy realises he’s not so far off when Merlin says, “Harry’s been shot,” and the words slam into him like a tidal wave.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I sorry? I wish I could say yes, but at this point I don't even know.
> 
> Unfortunately I'm leaving you on this for three weeks. The triweekly schedule is a lot friendlier to my physical recovery and reintroduction to work after having been ill for months, so I'm sticking with that for two or three chapters at least.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that? Me updating a week early? That's right, you're on one of those fics where the plot is out to kill you and the schedule is made up ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ "So, which Sunday is gonna be _the_ Sunday," you ask, to which I can only say: "Fuck if I know." Feel free to place your bets on the next update, but keep the tissues close.
> 
> With that, all I have left to say is welcome to hell, er, hospital... I meant hospital.

The fact that he’s stuck arguing at the front desk with the hospital clerk over an expired keycard while Harry lies unconscious somewhere with a gunshot wound _to the head_ , is so bizarre, Eggs can’t find it in himself to expend the single minute it would take him to form a compelling reason to be there and get past the barrier keeping him from Harry.

“He’s been bloody _shot_ ,” Eggsy says, for the third time, hearing himself on loop growing more and more desperate.

A nurse scuttles up to the desk, likely called in to settle the commotion. “Sir,” she says in the same condescending tone the clerk has used on him for the last ten minutes, and Eggsy wonders if he’s going crazy, because no one seems to grasp the gravity of the situation. “You are not authorised to access this ward or obtain any information about patients that may or may not have been brought to this hospital for treatment.”

He is so frustrated he’s actually starting to tear up. He’s so tired of hitting one road block after another, his walls are coming down so fast he’s getting caught in the rubble, and suddenly the last six weeks are far too much to handle, compounding into one scratchy lump in the back of his throat. He isn’t even sure what he was meant to say next, but it comes out as an ugly sob.

It’s embarrassing enough without him startling at a hand coming down on his shoulder, Merlin having come up behind him without Eggsy noticing. “Now now, don’t get riled up yet,” he says and Eggsy is instantly relieved, comforted by the unwavering nature of Merlin’s voice. He’s not the type of person anyone would classify as a saviour, but that is what Eggsy thinks he is when he takes the expired keycard from Eggsy and talks to the front desk attendant in a quiet voice.

“Here, it’s active temporarily, by which I mean until I say otherwise,” Merlin says, handing the card back, and Eggsy jogs to catch up with him and make the elevator.

“Thanks,” Eggsy murmurs, tucking it away in his coat pocket. Merlin nods at him and Eggsy wipes at his eyes, sniffing once to compose himself a little. “How is Harry?”

It’s the million dollar question that’s simultaneously been hounding him non-stop for an hour and which he doesn’t want to know the answer to because it cannot possibly be good.

Merlin says, “He’s only just been flown in. I haven’t seen him yet.”

“It’s been almost a day.”

“These things take an age, even if swiftness is of the essence. We weren’t even sure if he could be moved for a few days; head trauma is a difficult injury to negotiate with,” Merlin says, sounding like he’s done this before, “Harry got lucky in many ways. It took a while to resuscitate him at the scene, and America is too far away for immediate air transfer, so the craniotomy to remove the hemorrhage and relieve the building pressure in his brain had to be performed on site. Obviously they had to stabilise him before transport as well, not to mention getting together a plane and staff isn’t child’s play, but all in all he defied the odds and remains stubbornly alive.”

Eggsy’s head spins at the thought of it all. Merlin hadn’t even tried calling him until after the surgery, maybe because he didn’t have a suitable moment, but more likely because everything had been up in the air. So many ways Harry could’ve died before Eggsy even knew anything was wrong. Sometimes being in the dark is a blessing, Eggsy thinks, although he can’t imagine how much more horrific this would’ve been if he didn’t know the truth about Harry’s profession.

“Who even would shoot a tailor?” he murmurs, not realising he’s done it until Merlin looks at him funny, and the elevator pulls to a stop.

The clinic - this closed off floor with its eerie quietude doesn’t feel like it’s part of the rest of the hospital, but a separate facility - immediately sets Eggsy on edge. He hasn’t been here since he last visited Roxy the day she was discharged, when Harry was out of the country and everything was still uncertain. In many ways he’s back in the same situation in spite of all that’s happened since, or maybe it’s because of that.

“Where is he?” Eggsy asks, stepping out of the elevator.

“Intensive care unit. It’s behind another layer of security that can only be modified from here,” he says holding his hand out for Eggsy’s keycard.

With the sort of injuries that land people here, added security is probably a good precaution, but skulking by the wall waiting for Merlin to sort everything out only makes Eggsy even antsier. He never wanted to be back here, and, leaving with Roxy six weeks ago, he’d actually been naive enough to think that was the end of it.

He almost jumps at the sound of automatic doors at the end of the corridor, two doctors discussing a chart on their way out. One of them branches off into an office, the other heads right past him for Merlin.

“Merlin, I apologise for being late. These transfers always take additional time with all the paperwork,” she says as Merlin replies with something Eggsy doesn’t catch before he waves Eggsy over to rope him into the conversation.

“Eggsy, this is Dr Thiess. Dr Thiess, Eggsy; he’s here to see Harry with me. He’ll also receive clearance to visit independently if Harry’s state permits it.”

Dr Thiess nods as if it’s her cue and says: “That shouldn’t be a problem. Mr Hart is currently stable and the CT scan revealed no new hemorrhage caused by the transport, so his intracranial pressure has remained at a satisfactory level-”

She walks them through the automatic doors into a ward of glass rooms and monitors, turning back every so often to glance at them as she speaks.

“Regardless, he’s gone from a GCS score of 6 or 4t to 3t, which means he is in a coma and his state of consciousness has weakened slightly. Now, if that continues, it might be a problem, but all there is to do at the moment is monitor him. I have to warn you,” she says to Eggsy specifically, stopping in the middle of the corridor, “he remains intubated from transport until we can carry out further assessments on his breathing pattern. It’s sometimes a difficult sight.”

She speaks with the sympathy reserved for a loved one and Eggsy wonders what she must think of him. Eggsy glances at Merlin, who doesn’t get a warning, who has probably been several people’s emergency contact for twenty odd years. He’s stony faced and Eggsy doesn’t like it at all as a pointer of what’s to come.

He has to revise that thought when he finally catches a glimpse of Harry, or rather what might be him, because it seems reality is worse than anything Eggsy could have imagined. _Difficult_ is not the word to describe the experience. It occurs to him he’s forgotten to breathe when he’s made it into the room, following Merlin on autopilot, his body not quite his own.

He takes a few hesitant steps, moving mostly sideways for fear of getting too close and breaking something irreversibly. On the back of his neck, Dr Thiess’ assessing gaze burns hot. Harry looks like an android with all the wires going in and out, only the wires aren’t metal. His tubes are clear and filled with various liquids, and Eggsy thinks he isn’t about to be disconnected and come to life, he’s about to die.

“What is the revised prognosis?” Merlin asks, his voice rougher than usual, and Eggsy manages to tear his eyes away from the bed, sick to his stomach and desperately needing something else to focus on.

Dr Thiess flips to another page in Harry’s chart and Eggsy how complicated a line he’s about to hear, because surely no one walks away from these kinds of messes unscathed.

“Obviously the coma, although expected, isn’t a good sign,” she starts, hesitant, “It also makes it nigh on impossible to assess the true damage the bullet has done. There don’t seem to be any significant discrepancies between the CT scan taken at the initial trauma centre and the one post-transport; the bullet went through relatively unimportant parts of the left half of his brain, all of which - location, and limitation of the injury to one side of the brain, and the fact that the bullet exited the head - are desirable outcome in this kind of scenario. At the moment, I have reason to be optimistic, but the longer his coma drags on - particularly if there are no improvements or, even worse, if his GCS falls further - the slimmer the chances of any type of recovery become. Still, these are only odds and the situation might be completely different once Mr Hart regains consciousness.”

“D’you reckon he’s going to though?” Eggsy blurts, “Wake up, I mean. Dr Thiess glances back and forth between him and Harry, Eggsy’s face growing warm under the scrutiny. She must wonder, he knows. And rationally speaking, Eggsy wonders too. He’s a stripper in his mid twenties and Harry is only an ex-boyfriend, more or less twice his age, someone he told to get lost six weeks ago and here he is at his sickbed.

Dr Thiess says, “Honestly? No one knows.”

 

* * *

 

He gets a moment alone with Harry a little later. Eggsy suspects it has less to do with courtesy and more with how Merlin and Harry’s doctor stand a little too close outside the door, talking a mile a minute with worry creeping into the careful neutrality of Dr Thiess’ expression.

“You do such idiotic things, you know,” Eggsy says, his back turned to the door, painfully aware of the glass wall. Lately, all his emotions have seemed treacherous and the last thing he wants to do is put them on public display. “If this is some elaborate scheme to make me reconsider, to feel bad about breaking up with you-” Eggsy stops, takes a deep breath- “Well, it worked, alright. You can wake up now.”

It comes as no surprise that Harry doesn’t respond. He’s a series of outsourced, nominal beeps now.

“Please,” Eggsy says, “wake up.”

He reaches for Harry’s hand even though he shouldn’t, careful not to disturb the IV that’s just one of his many lifelines. It probably isn’t wise for him to be here in the first place. Nothing has changed between him and Harry, even where it should have. He said so himself. But Harry’s hand is still warm and familiar in Eggsy’s. Six weeks and he hasn’t fallen out of love one bit; he’s just gotten good at avoiding his own ugly thoughts. Eggsy squeezes one last time before he forces himself to let go.

He sticks his hands back in his pockets on his way out, fingers touching on the edge of the keycard.

 

* * *

 

 

“I thought I’d swing by Harry’s,” Merlin says when they’re in the car, Eggsy staring out the window with a plastic bag of Harry’s personal belongings in his lap. “I can drop you off first if you’d prefer.”

“No, I’ll come with you.”

It’s a terrible idea, Eggsy knows as much, but he needs a moment with something that reminds him of Harry at a better time. His keys, phone, glasses, everything in the bag is flaking with dried blood, and Eggsy can’t breathe looking at them and he can’t let go. All he wants is to stare at Harry’s butterfly collection in the foyer for five minutes and find he still can’t decipher the names.

“Okay,” Merlin says in the careful tone of voice that means he isn’t going to comment even though he thinks, perhaps, he should, but Eggsy is glad for it, hands tightening around the bag in his lap.

When they get to Harry’s, Merlin leaves him standing in the foyer, muttering something about a multimedia feed as he takes the stairs two at a time. Standing there alone, Eggsy is stranded in a vortex of memories: Harry rushing past in an apron as light as a breeze, a half finished game of chess forgotten on the coffee table after Harry complained he can’t sit on the floor any longer (“go on, laugh at me, you with your young joints” and Eggsy _had_ ), lying on the sofa half overlapping watching a movie because it really isn’t big enough for two grown men, but that was never going to stop them from trying anyway. Eggsy had loved that, the mess of the two of them, signs of life and laughter. Now the place is back to a clinically pleasant showhouse and yet it’s not like the first time Eggsy saw it. It’s reminiscent of Harry.

It must be down to the fact that Eggsy knows where to look now, prying open the cracks in the façade to look inside. That strange staleness he remembers from the first time he came over still lives on, a mixture of Harry’s cologne applied just before a trip, something baked the other week - the house unused since - and the quiet way the massive bookcases in the sitting room infuse the whole place with a distinct bookshop aroma. The mixture of absence and presence - cabinets stocked full while the fridge sits empty - that make up the vague charm of his house, form the corresponding whole of the man himself too, and yet, somehow, Eggsy never managed to put it all together until there was blood all over the kitchen floor.

He shudders thinking of Roxy, but the floorboards in the evening sun bear no trace of that afternoon. There’s no trace of Eggsy left either, the house scrubbed clean of their shared past.

Suddenly uncomfortable, Eggsy finally moves, making for the stairs because they’re the closest escape. It doesn’t occur to him how much more invasive being upstairs would be until he’s standing on the landing and everything feels a touch wrong. He can hear Merlin rooting through the shelves in the study, stopping briefly to type furiously and curse. It’s like catching a thief, only Eggsy isn’t supposed to be there either, so he slips into the master bedroom and shuts the door to the hall.

Which, he realises, frozen against the back of the door, is a monumental mistake. He stares wide eyed at the bed, perfectly made, and all that comes to mind is ghosting fingers, the guttural rumble of Harry’s voice at four am, sleep heavy against his neck. Harry, pupils blown, unwavering eyes on Eggsy even as his hands wander and explore. Eggsy averts his gaze, falling on a pair of pyjamas discarded by the bathroom door, quite possibly Harry’s only ordinary bad habit, and he feels a surge of fondness that overcomes the dread in the pit of his stomach.

He takes a few hesitant steps, scoops the clothes off the floor, and dumps them in the laundry hamper on the side of the bath. Harry still has that collection of liquor Eggsy used to think of as being strange, but which makes perfect sense considering how often Harry must have come home post-mission, fumbling around with his exceptional first aid kit over the sink, needing something to take the edge off emotionally and physically.

It’s a strange thing to behold Harry as Eggsy knew him fitted into this larger context, the borders on his oddities expanded to make sense. Most of the quirks Eggsy used to find charming find their explanation in the more sinister - or arguably chivalrous - parts of Kingsman, the realm of spies in the shadows, and yet he struggles to shake his initial enchantment. Harry’s grace, the effortless fluidity of his entire existence, the way his attention always seemed to be everywhere at once and yet intensely focused on Eggsy, are rooted in years of deceit. The real question, Eggsy is beginning to realise, isn’t which of Harry’s actions were genuine but where the distinction between Harry and his profession lies. Because maybe there isn’t a “real” Harry underneath; maybe Harry Hart, in his truest form, is everything Eggsy thought he was and _more_. What he perceived to be part of Harry as a civilian is still a part of Harry as a spy, but framed in a different context.

It seems to Eggsy, he might have known Harry all along, but with a restricted view. What he doesn’t know is whether it changes anything. A lie by omission is still a lie and what is there left between them without the smokescreen, when everything has been blown to pieces so spectacularly?

“I was starting to worry you’d taken off on your own.”

Eggsy startles at the words and spins on his heel to find Merlin in the doorway, leveling him with one of those looks that is most definitely a self contained question.

“Uh, no, I just came to get these,” Eggsy says, scrambling for the pile of books on Harry’s night stand as an excuse. He isn’t even on the right side of the room and his cheeks burn as he gathers the books into his arms. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yes and no,” Merlin says and, after a moment, adds, “Harry wouldn’t have happened to give you any passwords or codes?”

Eggsy shakes his head. “No, only a spare key.”

Merlin hums like it’s an interesting fact.

“What?”

“I did wonder where that key had gotten to, is all.”

“I gave it back,” Eggsy says, confused.

“Not now, weeks and weeks ago. I was meant to ask Harry, but I never got around to it before… Well, this clears up some loose threads in an investigation,” Merlin says flippantly. Eggsy doesn’t like the sound of that at all.

“Merlin-”

“Yes?”

“What happened to Harry,” Eggsy says, struggling for the right words, “it wasn’t an... accident, or whatever you lot like to call that type of thing, was it?”

“No.”

“Roxy said there’s something bigger goin’ on, a conspiracy or a mole or somethin’ like that.” Eggsy says, gesturing vaguely. At the time, he was convinced whatever was going on within the espionage branch of Kingsman had nothing to do with him; now he regrets not asking for details. He should’ve known this would catch up with him one day, even if it was through Harry and not some man in a trench and a trilby calling him into a dark alley. “D’ya reckon that’s connected to... you know?”

“Most likely, yes.”

It’s not nearly as firm an answer as Eggsy would want. The look Merlin gives him suggests this is far from over and it makes Eggsy uneasy. This isn’t like in the movies, heroes and villains working to outwit one another; this is spies spying on each other, a game of smoke and mirrors between the magician and his assistant. “You’re gonna figure out who’s done this though, right?” Eggsy asks, because the view from the cheap seats is anything but assuring.

“I’m doing my best, but it’s not exactly a one-man-problem.”

“If ya need help,” Eggsy says, clutching Harry’s books tighter, “well, I ain’t sayin’ I’ll do anythin’, but try me. I don’t want whoever’s doin’ this walking free and maybe that’s worth bending the rules a bit.”

It might well be an offer he’ll come to regret, but Eggsy can’t stand by doing nothing waiting for the next trainwreck to happen. As much as he wants no part in this whole mess, he’s already so very tangled up in it, the only way out is through, whatever that entails.

Merlin says, “I’ll keep that in mind.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, all my gratitude goes out to my beta [childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) without whom you would read sentences even I, the writer, don't understand.
> 
> I'm not in the country on the Sunday three weeks from now and definitely can't make the one in two, so maybe prepare for some crazy mid-week drop somewhere in early May. I know it's blasphemy, but please bear with me. I'm still struggling to pull this all together. This story was never meant to expand in the way it has and it's basically been non-stop winging on my part for the last fifteen-ish chapters? Maybe all of them. Anyway, it's a wild ride all around, folks.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told y'all the updates were gonna start being longer again and it ain't the only thing making a comeback ;)
> 
> No beta on this chapter, so all remaining mistakes are 100% my own... which might actually be quite a few, since I've slept maybe ten hours in the four days I've spent on this and I don't think I can form coherent sentences anymore.

There’s something exhaustive in the way Eggsy’s life seems to drag him weeks into the past, another series of emotionally taxing afternoons spent in hospital, only this time around it feels much worse. Harry doesn’t improve in the days after his transfer, so they keep him on the ventilator in the glass confines of the ICU where Eggsy doesn’t dare touch him.

It’s a stalemate situation: he can’t stay away and he can’t get close to Harry either, so Eggsy hovers, hands knotted in his lap, counting a careful hour every day before he leaves.

At night, he’s back to not sleeping, up for hours pacing like he’s still waiting for a call from the man lying comatose in hospital. It leaves him irritable, the whole world grating on his nerves to a point where he makes the executive decision that everyone can be buggered and sort themselves out for once.

Going on a week, the books he half accidentally nicked from Harry’s place end up coming in handy. They’re stacked on the coffee table in Eggsy’s living room and he finds himself curled up on the couch in the wee hours of the morning trying to catch up to Harry’s bookmarks before he dozes off into a fitful few hours of rest. They’re just words on pages, read by hundreds of thousands of people before them - someone probably out there right now poring over the same sentences as Eggsy - but he feels as though he’s walking in Harry’s footsteps, like there’s some crucial clue between the lines as to what happened to Harry. Eggsy desperately wants to know, but he doesn’t dare ask for answers.

Harry has no explanations to offer either, lying motionless with the only indicator of life being the various monitors beeping, pumping, and hissing patiently around him to fill the silence. He’s growing stubble, Eggsy has noticed, and there’s more of it than he’s ever seen on Harry before. In theory, his chest moves too, but the tube down his throat makes it look anything but natural.

What worries Eggsy most is the bandage around Harry’s head, because it half covers a hard plastic patch over his left eye that he’s too scared to ask about. Somewhere in Harry’s skull there are two holes that aren’t meant to be there. The thought follows Eggsy home and into bed where he claws his way out of a nightmare with a hole punch barrel to his head not two hours later.

Somewhere between work, the hospital, and all his sleepless nights, he finishes three novels. The fourth ends up in his backpack by accident and Eggsy finds it on there on the tube on his way to see Harry again. It’s still in his hand in the ICU and he’s halfway through a paragraph he can’t let go of, because they’re all glued to one another in an inseparable tangle and he need to know what happens next. Faced with the suffocatingly sterile calm of the room, Eggsy has the bright idea to read the remainder of the page out loud to Harry. One page turns into two, then three, four, five, until he reaches the end of both the chapter and the afternoon.

Closing the book almost feels almost like a misstep, because those few hours spent reading aloud are the first time Eggsy has been at ease since the call about Harry came in and he doesn’t want the moment to end. He’s still got as many curious eyes watching him as on that first day, Harry’s in no better state, and his life is still exactly as much of a mess as before, but something within him aches a little less at talking to Harry, even if the words are someone else’s, scripted for him on a page. It’s easier that way, safer.

Eggsy leaves the book on the bedside table, waiting for his next visit..

 

* * *

He finally hears from Merlin again on the day after the man has failed to show up at the club for the third day in a row.

“If you’re ‘bouta tell me you’re quittin’, I’m gonna murder you myself,” Eggsy says drily into the phone. He’s winged being a bartender without incident so far; that’s not the problem. What bothers him is that, for a short while the night before, he’d actually lain awake in bed wondering if something had happened to Merlin too and whether he might ever find out if that really was the case.

Merlin, unconcerned, says, “I’ve been busy,” and it’s neither an excuse nor an apology. It’s just a fact he’s daring Eggsy to take the wrong way. Fortunately, neither one of them has the patience to play games at the moment, so Eggsy hums evasively, letting Merlin get on with it.

He says, “Listen, I’ll cover for you tonight, but I need you to pick Roxy up from the tailor shop and come out to Harry’s at six. Not earlier, not later; I’m on a schedule. Can you do that?”

“Sure,” Eggsy says, “If you get me a car.”

“There’s one parked outside your building. The keys are in your mailbox. Don’t fuck around with it.”

He doesn’t have time to scoff or pretend to be offended before Merlin hangs up on him. He must know Eggsy doesn’t have a license, but if he’s worth his salt, Merlin also knows Eggsy can drive just fine without one.

 

* * *

Roxy pops out of the shop into London’s finer streets at three that afternoon, looking to all the world like she hasn’t missed a single beat during her seven week absence. She is so entirely  _ present _ as she looks both ways and opens an umbrella into the pouring rain, Eggsy wonders if any time has passed at all since he’s last seen her. Then the illusion breaks, the car door slamming loudly on his detachment, and there she is: sat in the passenger side, twisting into the backseat to toss her umbrella on the floor and complain about the weather like they haven’ both been bred into it.

“Dear Lord, you look  _ worse _ . How do you look worse?” Roxy says and she’s so real, so normal - teasing and concerned at once - Eggsy feels overwhelmed all over again.

His face must do something funny, because she looks at him with that brand of unspoken worry Merlin has leveled at him all too often lately, and Eggsy leans over, straining against his seat belt to hug her tightly.

“I missed you so much,” he says, voice a touch wobbly, and Roxy squeezes back. “I didn’t even realise how much I missed you until right this moment.”

“Trust me, the feeling’s mutual,” she murmurs, sounding a bit too close to tears herself.

They both collect themselves wordlessly, Roxy brushing rain drops off her tights while Eggsy fiddles with the windshield wiper.

“How d’ya wanna kill the next couple hours?” he asks once they’re stuck in traffic.

“I’ve normally done therapy in the afternoon,” Roxy says and blanks. “Any ideas?”

“Well, I’ve visited Harry at this time these past ten days,” Eggsy says and the sympathy on her face is a bit too much to look at, so he focuses firmly on the road instead.

“How is he?”

“Still in a coma. I don’t really understand all the details; I just like to go by when I can.”

“I cannot imagine what this is like for you, Eggsy. I’m so sorry you have to go through this, but do you really think it’s a good idea to be emotionally involved like that? You two aren’t together anymore.”

It’s a thought that’s crossed his mind too and it’s never stuck. “He’s hurt,” Eggsy says, “maybe forever. Harry might never wake up again and not visitin’... well, it would be like givin’ up on him. Whatever he did - whatever happened between me ‘n’ him - I never wanted anything like this to happen to him. I loved him. I really did and it don’t come off easy.”

Roxy, quiet for a moment, asks: “Do you still?”

“I don’t know,” Eggsy says, “Maybe it don’t matter either way.”

 

* * *

 

 

“All right, this is gonna be the opposite of an exciting job,” Merlin says, leading them up into Harry’s study before any of them can dwell too much on the last time all three of them were in this house together. The place has morphed into something unrecognisable even in the short while since Harry was shot and the incident eight weeks ago seems a lifetime removed.

“Mind telling us why we’ve just walked into your personal nightmare?” Roxy asks when they’re faced with a dozen archive boxes stacked in twos against the the wall to each side of the window.

“You’re looking at some of Kingsman’s last paper logs,” Merlin says, “These are from the time before the automated electronic system went up that retroactive filing hasn’t caught up with yet. They were supposed to be processed by now, but for some reason weren’t. It took me two days to locate them in a remote storage facility we haven’t sent files to since 2005.” That appears to mean something to Roxy, Eggsy notes. Merlin continues: “Obviously that was suspicious, so I set about smuggling the whole lot out - by the way, Eggsy, apologies for my absence this week; here’s what I’ve been doing - and decided to store them here.”

“Why Harry’s house?” Eggsy asks.

Roxy says, “Whoever is behind this would be monitoring active agents closely and any one of Kingsman’s communal sites would be compromised spaces.” A flicker of something akin to pride passes on Merlin’s face.

“Roxy is right,” he says. “This place also has the best security measures on such short notice. All safety procedures here that are in place through Kingsman are under my control and the rest are my own private design, so no one can get into or out of this house without my knowledge of it.”

Eggsy lifts the lid of one of the boxes and pulls out the first file. Beyond the cover page it consists only of columns upon columns of seemingly random strings of numbers. Almost, at least, because some stand out as being confined to a range - all positive and below 366 or 2400 - while others carry on into eight, nine, ten digits without an obvious pattern.

“Where exactly do we come in?” he asks.

“This is sensitive information that cannot be scanned and stored even on Kingsman’s most restricted servers, so I need someone to go through the hard copies in person and on site.”

“Dear lord,” Roxy says, “There must be god knows how many pages here.”

“My estimate would be twenty-five thousand pages,” Merlin replies, entirely serious.

“Twenty-five thousand?” The number is staggering enough for Eggsy to want to sit down. “What’re we lookin’ for?”

“That’s where you’re in luck, because I’ve got an inkling of a pattern and it should make this significantly less complicated than it would be without anything at all.”

“This is really what we’re gonna be doing?” Roxy asks, sounding disappointed, and Eggsy understands her fully. It’s a dreadful task, the  _ Where’s Waldo? _ Of numbers. They’ll be at this for weeks.

Merlin doesn’t take to her question well, though, sniping back, “This may be menial work, but we’re dealing with high level internal corruption and a rather significant external threat here. Your own life may well depend on it, not to mention the lives of the countless operatives out there. The organisation has had a personnel turnover of a year in the last quarter and I can neither micromanage everything, so I need someone to roll up their sleeves and do this. The question is: Is it gonna be the two of you or not?”

“I wasn’t suggesting-” Roxy starts and the stops at the look he gives her, exhaustion running so deep there’s no end to it. Eggsy has never seen Merlin unguarded and, judging by Roxy’s reaction, she hasn’t either.

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mean to lose my temper,” Merlin says in return, calming, the ebb and flow of his mood thick in the room, “but this could be the key to everything.”

“We’re here,” Eggsy says and Roxy, who meets his gaze, unwavering, nods in agreement.

 

* * *

Between balancing the club with Roxy - Eggsy back to dancing and choreographing while she takes over the logistics of the bar in Merlin’s absence - and the countless hours they spend highlighting and cross referencing papers outside work, Eggsy barely finds the time to visit Harry anymore. He misses five days one week and only manages to show up at Harry’s bedside on Sunday morning. It’s strangely reminiscent of their old rhythm, both of them often tied up in their own affairs until the end of the week. There’s no dinner date now, no movie night, no lounging around together past noon on a Monday morning.

“We’ve appropriated your house a bit,” Eggsy says once he’s explained his absence. “I hope you don’t mind. With JB and the club all the commutin’, there’s barely a half hour to shower left in my day.”

It’s a punishing rhythm that has left him and Roxy lying on the floor completely numb more than once. One time, and it really was only meant to be the once, they ended up crashing at Harry’s, virtually blind in those few early morning hours before London gears up for a new work day molded in the image of all the ones before. It was a half accidental occurrence, Roxy pulling her knees to her chest and nodding off in the armchair between files. Eggsy meant to say something, force them to get up and have coffee, but the prospect of shivering out in the cold on his way home had been grim enough for him to doze quietly on the sofa until he was in too deep to think about it and sleep clubbed him bluntly. And it wasn’t the only time, although the third time around it was no accident anymore.

Eggsy still knows where the linens and the towels are, so they’d stripped the bed together and taken turns soaking in the tub when their minds when the numbers stopped making any sense, swimming on the pages. The whole thing amounts to a lifeless cycle: the dead sleep Eggsy is suddenly getting distracts him enough not to think about whose bed it is he’s in and what on earth he’s doing back in it.

To Harry, he says: “Roxy spilled some cranberry juice on the edge of your livin’ room carpet. We tried gettin’ it out as best as we could, but it might still leave a stain.”

He trails off awkwardly, because this is supposed to be where Harry tells him he has a magic fix for that, only he can’t. It isn’t even just the ventilator, Eggsy has to remind himself. Having wanted Harry to be better so ardently for the past few weeks, Eggsy sometimes feels like they’re back together again, even with the weight of the past few months pressing on him heavily every hour of the day.

Roxy is right in that respect: This isn’t good for him at all, but the predicament they’re in is so unorthodox, Eggsy doesn’t feel like following the rules. Remaining rational when your ex-boyfriend has been shot in the head simply isn’t a priority, so he picks up a book and starts reading without giving any of it much thought.

The next time he goes to visit Harry two days later, Roxy is with him. Normally she chooses to do a Tesco run across from the hospital, the two of them sharing a car, a commute, and this detour. Today though, she bites her lip in the parking lot and asks if she can come with. It feels strange at first, to be there with someone and then it doesn’t, because Roxy whispers, “Oh my god,” when she sees Harry and it’s so very different from Merlin’s initial reaction.

Eggsy says: “I know.” He stands on the other side of the bed, both of them looking down at Harry and it’s refreshing to know he isn’t the only one struggling with this. He lets his hands reach for Harry’s limp one in the bed, finding it reassuring somehow. Even in a coma, broken up and shot, Harry manages to comfort him.

“That could be me,” Roxy says quietly, eyes flicking to the eyepatch.

“I know,” Eggsy says. “When you were stabbed, this is how I saw things going. I thought I couldn’t possibly feel any worse, but of course Harry just had to one up me and prove me wrong on that.”

He sighs when she says nothing, shifting guiltily from one foot to the other as she picks up the book on the bedside table to avoid him.

“ _ The Goldfinch _ ,” Roxy says more to herself than him. She finds the bookmark, a laminated pug cutout Eggsy accidentally left at Harry’s when he saved his own place in a book Harry was reading. It isn’t the same book and he’s ahead of Harry now, his page folded at the corner. “Have you been reading this to him?” she asks.

“Yeah. I don’t know if it helps and it’s a bit depressin’ most of the time, but it’s one of the last things Harry read. I figured he might want to know how it ends.”

“Won’t be long anymore,” she says, eyeing the 500 page mark.

Eggsy doesn’t say anything. He’s been reading slower lately, not really wanting to hit the back cover, because it seems like a bad sign. If he finishes a brick like this, he’ll have to think about what it means that Harry still hasn’t woken up.

They’re going on two weeks now and his hair is starting to look a little overgrown, like he was meant to cut it just before he got shot and never quite got around to it. Eggsy can’t actually tell with the way the blanket covers most of him, but Harry also seems to have lost weight, muscles melting off his body fast and the uncertainty of whether he’s going to be okay leaves Eggsy sick to his stomach.

He clears his throat. “We should go,” he says to Roxy, “We’ve still got work to do.”

She gives him a skeptical look that Eggsy ignores steadfastly. He needs to do something to distract himself from the inevitability of time ticking towards some kind of doomsday when there’s no more hope left, for Harry or anyone else.

 

* * *

“Three boxes down,” Roxy says, practically collapsing with relief a the minor milestone. It’s another weekend and they’ve pulled a thirteen hour day in the study, minus the the afternoon walk to Sainsbury’s with JB to fetch something for a late lunch. 

Eggsy is convinced he’s gone blind from the sheer volume of numbers he’s had to sift through, but it isn’t all for nothing. They’ve got the beginnings of a pattern outlined in pink highlighter and a theory to prove. For tonight, they’re done though. He lifts the newly finished box onto the other two completed ones while Roxy pushes the pages they’ve sorted out into a separate pile and dumps them in what they’ve labeled the evidence box.

When she gets up off the floor, there is a hesitant moment where she grimaces and rubs at her leg. Sitting around for long times still leaves her with a bit of a limp for a while after, the only sign left of her injury, excluding the scar.

That, Eggsy has seen only a few times - when she’s come out of the bath, the angry line of it just below the hem of the towel - but he’s never dared to address it. Maybe he doesn’t because he doesn’t want to confront what happened or maybe it’s because he’s never liked people asking about his scars: the thin line on his right shoulder where Dean held a kitchen knife a little too close one time, or the three elliptical slivers on his forearms where he’d ripped open his skin climbing a rusty fence in a hurry trying to avoid a savage beating after school. Harry has his own marks too, scattered unevenly all over his back and torso. Merlin’s sometimes see the light of day for a moment when he reaches for a bottle on a high shelf and his shirt rides up.

In some ways, they’ve all been in a war zone and the details are unmentionable.

Eggsy is confronted with the idea again the very next day, Roxy shoving half a granola bar into her mouth at the kitchen counter. “I’m going out for lunch with Sophie,” she says when Eggsy raises an eyebrow at her tweed skirt suit, brand new and recognisably Kingsman's own make; he’s seen the fabric in the shop when he got his own suit, James shoving him toward smoother samples.

“Oh,” Eggsy says, surprised. He’d assumes her relationship had to have collapsed under the weight of the deception surrounding it as his own had. Perhaps he’d misjudged. “Where’s she think you’ve been these past two months?”

“An internship in Seattle,” Roxy says, avoiding his eye, knowing the thought can’t sit well with him. “I know what you think,” she adds when Eggsy can’t find the words he’s looking for, “I am not making the same mistakes as Harry.”

“‘S not for you to decide,” Eggsy says carefully. “She might see it differently.”

“She won’t. We’re from the same world. Almost, at least. The Montague-Herring family has a long history of involvement in politics. Professional façades are expected, the norm.”

“And what if she’s with you because you’re different?” Eggsy challenges her, the idea of becoming complicit in whatever lies Roxy is spinning making his heart race.

“We didn’t meet at that club like you think,” she says, offering him an apologetic smile as though she’s about to confess to something he’ll disapprove of. “That is, I did only get her name and number there, if that’s what’s in a meeting, but she saw me for the first time a few weeks earlier, caught in a rather delicate and explicit situation that’s very much classified and stashed away in a legal settlement now. She never asked about it and I never told, but she _knows_. Has to. Given, I don’t know how much she’s aware, but she’s smart and well connected enough to get her hands on any information she wants. Whatever she doesn’t know about me, she has chosen to overlook.”

Eggsy wants to argue it isn’t that easy, thinking back to all the signs he never registered in Harry, however obvious. The fight in the alley for one: Eggsy had been so caught up in worrying what Harry would think of him if he found out about his upbringing, he’d neglected to ask about where Harry had learned to fight with such dirty efficiency, a detail that makes perfect sense in hindsight.

Roxy says: “I meant what I said. Me and her are not you and Harry.”

“Were we your cautionary tale?” he asks, needing to know what they had looked like to someone who knew both their secrets, who watched them trick each other to look the other way and chose not to do the same.

“No, you weren’t,” Roxy says, a sad look passing over her face. “I had more hope for the two of you than I think you ever understood, in spite of everything.”

The admission takes Eggsy by surprise. Her honesty finally forces him to confront a thought that’s been slowly forming over the past few weeks, shaping up in the hours of the night he’s spent staring up into the ceiling, lying in Harry’s bed without him, wondering where exactly it all went wrong. He’s almost too afraid to say it out loud, but it’s a question too heavy to keep inside, so he asks: “Do you think it’s all lost forever?”

“I don’t know if that’s up to you to decide anymore,” Roxy says. “Life has run its interference, but perhaps you should think about your stance on the matter, just in case it ever becomes relevant again.”

 

* * *

 

The more often he visits Harry, the more at ease Eggsy feels about being there. Showing up alleviates a longing within him; leaving opens the door to worry again. Three and half weeks Harry has been like this now, adrift in the confines of his own body. Eggsy is halfway through his second novel with Harry by now,  _ the Goldfinch _ having inevitably come to an end, though this one is just as long and getting shorter by the minute.

Reading seems like small talk in comparison to all the things he’s actually been wanting to tell Harry, like a long warm up for a two line confession he has yet to manage. At the end of the afternoon, Eggsy sits there with the closed book in his lap for a while.

“You know, lately, I’ve been thinkin’ and rethinkin’ everythin’ I know, or thought I knew, ‘bout you -  _ us _ ,” he says into the air, “You need to wake up so I can tell you all about it. Something has changed, Harry, and I can’t figure this next bit out without ya.”

 

* * *

 

Merlin is in the ICU the next time Eggsy walks in, caught in the light of the other occupied room at the far end of the corridor. Dr Thiess is there too, looking over a chart Merlin points things out on repeatedly. They’re too absorbed in whatever they’re doing to notice Eggsy, who slips into Harry’s room with a new book in hand.

“Hi,” he says, somehow having gotten into the habit of carrying out half a conversation while he sets up, “I hope you like this one. It isn’t one of yours, but I saw you flippin’ through it at mine once and now’s as good a time as any for me to re-read it.”

Eggsy pulls a chair up to Harry’s bed from where it’s been moved into the corner since his last visit and he thinks maybe Merlin’s been by. They don’t talk much about Harry and Merlin isn’t known for overtly showing emotion, but Eggsy is aware all the same he cares about Harry as much as Eggsy does. Just because they aren’t there for Harry at the same time and in the same ways doesn’t mean they aren’t both pulling their own weight.

“You’re gonna miss spring at this rate, you know,” Eggsy continues, folding an introduction out of the way. He gets to page twelve - chapter one - and briefly looks up at an extra beep on a monitor.

It’s one of those hopeful moments he’s had half a dozen times in the last month: the imagined twitch of a finger, an extra heartbeat, eyes moving under closed eyelids. Eggsy watches for a moment longer, forcefully keeping his breath from stalling. Waiting with baited breath hasn’t brought him anything so far.

Today though, on a perfectly ordinary weekday afternoon, Harry’s eyes open, or rather the one not covered by the patch opens, staring straight up into the ceiling, and Eggsy has to blink a few times to convince himself he isn’t hallucinating, because the moment drags on endlessly, frozen under the weight of its own implication.

Then Harry blinks too and all the monitors speed up, suddenly alert.

“Harry,” Eggsy says, the word on his tongue and out of his mouth before he’s even finished the thought in his mind. Harry’s gaze slips to the side, a slow slide, following the sound of his own name blindly. “Just hang in there,” Eggsy murmurs, one hand clasping Harry’s tightly, because he sure as hell isn’t letting him slip away again while he fumbles for the panic button with his free hand.

When the alarm goes off, Harry looks like he’s emerging from underwater, coming up for air for the first time in years, his pupils blown wide with a sudden panic slipping into the life that’s enveloped him out of the blue. His throat works against the tube taped to his mouth, fingers curling in a slow motion, but his eyes remain on unwaveringly on Eggsy, bright with recognition and the purest form of hope. Their moment breaks with the squeak of rubber soles on the linoleum floor, the room flooding with a flurry of nurses and doctors all trying to get to Harry, and Eggsy drifts away without noticing: pulled out of the way and washed up at the edge of the room with Merlin holding him by the shoulders as his vision blurs, swallowing Harry whole again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just gonna go ahead and say it: I couldn't manage another scene between those last two and I don't care if that makes the execution on the whole cheesy af. I think we've all suffered long enough as it is.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did y'all notice that sneaky disappearance of the question mark in the chapter numbers? Yup, the end is _finally_ materialising. Unfortunately the math on that doesn't show that this is actually the last chapter and that the next one will be the epilogue. I originally intended the end for the next chapter, but this one is very nearly double length, so same difference.
> 
> Special thanks to [childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) without whom I would've probably second guessed myself into infinity on every little detail in this chapter.

Eggsy has ceased to exist, of this he is sure. He is distantly aware of his body being manhandled, but his mind has gone offline so that the lights overhead take on a swimming, surreal quality as he’s being moved into another room. Merlin holds on to him, a firm hand on his arm pushing him out of the way until the cool of the wall is sucking the heat right from Eggsy’s body. They wheel Harry past with two bags of something and three nurses attached. Among all that, Harry looks even more out of it than Eggsy, but that’ll be attributable to the coma.

Eggsy is just slowly losing his mind hyperventilating in the hallway.

Then Roxy shows up, shouldering Merlin out of the way, saying things Eggsy either doesn’t hear or cannot process, but it’s still better, because at least he knows he’s being spoken to. The shock starts to wear off by the third cup of tea she holds for him because his hands are too shaky. He’s so nauseous each one turns nasty before he has a chance to finish it.

“Fuck,” Eggsy says eventually.

It’s the first word out of his mouth in an hour and Roxy frowns. “Is that a good or bad ’fuck’?” she asks and Eggsy smiles because he doesn’t know either, but it leaves a funny aftertaste in his mouth.

A month he’s waited for Harry to wake up. A month he’s sat at his bedside waiting for this exact moment, worrying every time he left what it meant that Harry still hadn’t woken up while simultaneously feeling a twinge of relief at not having to confront that reality yet. Harry in a coma was terrifying and not even the urgent sort like almost stepping out into a crossing and getting hit by a car. No, it was like repeatedly waking from the same sweaty nightmare, only Eggsy was never in bed. He simply snapped back into his life in the middle of the porridge isle not realising he’d ever drifted off.

That was the MO for most days anyway. Other times, Harry being in a coma was an excuse to be near him, to sit in a room with him being intimate via a book and maybe hold his hand if Eggsy was feeling particularly brave.

Harry awake is quite a different story. It reinstates all the boundaries that have blurred on Eggsy’s part. That itch to touch is back again and it’s an even worse idea than right after they broke up, because this new configuration poses a series of hypothetical questions which are at once impossible to ignore and impossible to answer. And that’s only the beginning of it.

It assumes this is the end of something when it might just be the beginning of another convoluted journey. Maybe Harry isn’t okay. Maybe he can’t speak, or walk, or understand a damn thing. He’s almost certainly lost an eye. Quite possibly he’s forgotten Eggsy altogether, perhaps even a decade or two of his life, if the bullet has gone that way. The thought sends a shudder through Eggsy. Even with all that’s happened, he doesn’t want to be the only one living in their shared past. If Harry has forgotten about him and most of the things he’s lied about, there is no point in any of Eggsy’s turmoil. They can’t possibly have a future if it can’t follow from their past, although Eggsy still doesn’t know if there is going to be a future at all.

There are just too many variables. All the ‘what if’s are running through his mind in tireless loops, outcomes and probabilities adjusted at breakneck speed to conjure a thousand different scenarios. Harry could remember everything to the very moment the bullet struck him and then what? It wouldn’t change anything; he would be the exact same person as before apart from the hole in his head. Except, that is highly unlikely, a statistical improbability that’s so vast it’s basically a certainty, but Eggsy can’t seem to settle on a more solid outcome, likely because they’d all be much worse.

The nerve wracking uncertainty from before Harry woke up has increased exponentially since he’s opened his eyes - two possible outcomes splintering into a thousand - and it’s all too much to take in at once. If Eggsy was handling the situation poorly before, he’s stopped coping altogether now. He thinks of his father going on deployment, how his mum had fretted and worried about the possibility of his dad dying and how the constant jitter of anxiety in their lives had been nothing compared to when it actually happened. Like watching a pane of glass vibrate before it shatters. This time around, everything is supposed to be fine and yet Eggsy doesn’t feel any less broken.

Inches from his face, Roxy waves a hand to draw his attention back to the moment. He isn’t sure how much time he’s lost this time. The ICU is still reeling from the sudden burst of activity - a miracle right on their doorstep - and it’s making Eggsy antsy. He’s here for Harry and Harry is somewhere else having his whole life reevaluated.

“I don’t think I should be here right now,” Eggsy says.

Later, when he’s home alone with a cup of tea, the shrieking pitch of his thoughts reaches a crescendo and he bursts out in tears, not sure whether he’s crying with relief or from grief, but it leaves him so utterly _numb_ it hurts.

 

* * *

 

 

Eggsy finds himself at Harry’s house the next morning without meaning to, life on autopilot because he can’t focus long enough to think about what he wants to do next. Getting on with work as if nothing has happened is really the only way he can cope, so he lets himself into the foyer and gets on with it.

He’s done this for nearly two decades: outsourced himself from tragedy and redirected all his restless energy into something that’ll absorb him without question. At five, he picked up gymnastics; at nine, after Dean, he sunk the teeth of his fear and fury into qualifying for the marines. Now, he finds himself in a wasteland of files and begins picking them up, determined to make something out of himself before he hits the atmosphere of this new reality and combusts.

They have only have a box and a half left, having picked up some speed the previous week, but Eggsy starts with the papers on the floor, which look like they’ve been forgotten in a hurry. This is where Roxy must have sat when Merlin called yesterday. Picking up where she left off, Eggsy stitches time together to omit an entire day and everything that happened in it. He’s okay this way, he has to be.

 

* * *

 

 

For the next few hours he’s mostly at peace, taken up enough by the files to be distracted, so much so, he isn’t aware someone’s in the house until Roxy is stood in the doorway of the study lowering a kitchen knife.

“Christ, what are you doing here?” she asks, relief morphing into anger.

“‘S pretty self-explanatory, ain’t it,” Eggsy says, waving his current file.

“Eggsy,” says Roxy and it’s the sort of weighted tone that was meant to have warned him off half his life choices. Roxy says, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s fine,” Eggsy says. He doesn’t mean to sound defensive, but he knows she’s right and it puts him on edge. Staying home isn’t an option though, because left to his own devices he would go off the wall thinking about Harry.

Roxy says, “You are in no state to do this.”

“I gotta do something-”

“You should be with Harry,” she says pointedly, “He’s alone in hospital: scared, injured, and at a complete crossroads with his entire life.”

“It isn’t my place.”

“Oh, don’t come with that shit. You sat at his bedside for four weeks and that wasn’t your place either. You read to him, you’ve watered his plants, you stocked up on that tomato sauce we ate. For fuck’s sake, I caught you doing backlog laundry the other week. If he had a dog, you would’ve adopted it by now.” She takes a deep breath to calm the tremor in her voice. “Look, you were there when he woke up. That matters. You can’t abandon him like this. It’s cruel. And not just to Harry. Merlin’s out there in a frenzy trying to get everything sorted, you two included, and I’ve just spent all morning looking for you so he’d have one less thing to worry about.”

“Roxy,” Eggsy says, starting to lose his temper too, “It ain’t a good idea for us to be together right now, okay? I don’t want Harry to get confused. Yes, I was there at the hospital, but I don’t even know if he knew who I was.”

In the background, his brain screams _liar liar_ , because Harry had to have recognised him. Eggsy can still feel the pressure of Harry’s hand squeezing back, the piercing heat in his gaze.

“Say what you want,” Roxy says, “all I know is he asked for you this morning.”

 

* * *

 

 

He should go visit, Eggsy knows that, but can’t make himself. He should call. He can’t do that either. He’s had all week to break his head over this and the guilt keeps mounting, replacing all his organs and making him nauseous when he lies in bed thinking about Harry alone in that glass room.

Roxy has tried to get him to go too, even drove up to the clinic once, at which point Eggsy got out of the car and walked off to the tube fuming. She wouldn’t have known about the mounting panic that made him sit on a metal bench for ten minutes, waiting for his heart rate to even out.

She hasn’t said a word about Harry to him since. Roxy even covered for him the time Merlin came into the club looking for Eggsy, because in this respect she’s made her alliances years ago and Merlin has always been on the losing end. Then they’d quietly sifted through files for five hours and Eggsy had thought that would be the end of it.

Of course, that was when Harry called, leaving a short, half confused and half irritated sounding voice mail with the echo of a nurse’s voice in the background. That was yesterday and Eggsy hasn’t stopped thinking about how his voice sounded a little strange, like he was struggling to string words together in the right order. Even when he’s unwell Harry is still trying to get a hold of Eggsy and here Eggsy is, hiding. He doesn’t even know anymore from what or why. Their past is what it is, Harry’s in better shape than any of them could have imagined a week ago, and yet Eggsy continues to be perpetually upset.

It’s beginning to dawn on him that he hasn’t actually processed a single event in the last three months and now all his half mangled thoughts are unravelling at once, a backlog of emotions crashing over him like an avalanche. Trying to resist it and find a foothold in the present leaves Eggsy beat up and raw.

At the same time, the focus and intensity of his hurt have shifted, the feeling itself almost reshaped into something unrecognisable in the past month, and Eggsy is scared to explore what it’s become - to touch upon the edges and see what he’s turned into, what Harry looks like in his mind’s eye now.

Eggsy stares at his phone and his phone stares back, begging him to take action. He wonders if this is what Harry felt like back when they were together, always having this complication in mind and never quite finding the courage to address it in the end. In keeping his work from Eggsy, Harry did have Eggsy’s best interest in mind as well as his own, but in this case, Eggsy can’t reasonably claim to be considerate of Harry.

In the end, he doesn’t have to reach a decision, because the phone lights up in his hands, Roxy’s face grinning up at him from the display.

“Eggsy, we’re brilliant,” she says as soon as he picks up.

Eggsy can’t help smiling. “Hi to you too. What’s this all about?”

“I’m sifting through the last bits of the files now, but I talked to Merlin and apparently he’s managed to construct watertight proof from the stuff we’ve already handed over. It’s not over yet, of course, but I’m getting on a plane with Percival soon. We cracked it.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“Yes! Christ, I’ve got to get a space suit fitted,” she says and laughs nervously.

“A space suit?”

“Yes, don’t ask me how that’s gonna work out with my fear of heights. Dear Lord. I’ll just have to do it somehow.” There’s a breathlessness in her voice and Eggsy can hear her running up the stairs somewhere.

She’s so excited and Eggsy isn’t capable of feeling anything but worry. “You know I’ve got total faith in ya, but be careful, yeah?” he says. There’s a heavy feeling in him like he misses her before she’s even gone. These days Roxy always seems to be two steps ahead and just out of reach.

She says, “Will do. Look, I’ve got to pack and get dressed, but I wanted to call to let you know I found a letter. I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you; it was kind of an accident and I think it’s a private affair, but I’ve seen it now anyway and maybe it’s something you need to read.”

“Rox, slow down,” Eggsy says, frowning, “What are you talking about?”

“The letter in Harry’s bedside table. I was checking I had all my stuff and I found it in the back. It was addressed to you, but not sealed. I don’t know if he was ever going to give it to you or what it’s for, but there were written pages inside, so it is _something_. I didn’t read it though. If you want to take a look, I left it where I found it.”

He shouldn’t. He absolutely, most definitely should not, but Eggsy is so conflicted at present, he can hardly be expected to make smart choices. “Is anyone at the house?” he asks, because the last thing he wants to do is walk into Merlin scowling at something in the study.

“Not that I know of.”

Eggsy thinks about it. When he hasn’t said anything for a while, she says, “Eggsy,” in that particular way of hers.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Good luck.”

“You too.”

 

* * *

 

 

It feels almost intrusive to sneak around like this, not that Eggsy is sneaking exactly. He takes the quickest route to Harry’s and spends a moment in the foyer listening for any sounds before he dashes up the stairs and heads for the bedroom. He doesn’t know why he expects it to look any different than last time when this letter had to have existed all along. The only thing that’s changed is the bedspread, pulled clumsily back over the mattress earlier by Roxy, though she’s left the decorative pillows piled up in an armchair in the corner.

Eggsy tosses them all onto the bed to make space for himself. Then he opens the drawer, reaches inside to pat down the back of the drawer and sure enough there it is: an envelope that has his name in Harry’s hand on it when he pulls it out. Inside, he finds pages upon pages of a rough draft scribbled in dying ballpoint on hotel stationery.

 

> _~~Dear~~ _ _Eggsy,_ ~~_darling,_ ~~
> 
> _I am sorry._ ~~_Does that mean anything to you? I can’t imagine how it could, because_ ~~ _I know what it sounds like, but I can’t seem to find a fitting apology. Perhaps there isn’t one. What I’ve done - or perhaps rather failed to do - is unforgivable. And yet I keep hoping you could find it in you to forgive in spite of everything. I cannot blame you if you don’t, even if life without you is a prospect I can’t seem to be able to face._ ~~_If you do leave me, I can’t do anything but tell myself I brought this upon myself._ ~~ _Whatever punishment you deem appropriate, I’ll suffer it, just please don’t ever think I set out to hurt you._
> 
> _In hindsight, it seems like a feeble excuse, but I did always want the best for you. I wanted to tell you the truth so often. It sat on the tip of my tongue daily, and then you’d look at me with that magnetic happiness of yours, and it would’ve been a crime to take that from you. Obviously, in part, my motives were selfish. I’m rarely concerned with the way people see me as it tends to be part of a professional act, but with you, well, I wanted to see myself the way you do and really believe in that person. In thinking that, I lost sight of who I truly am, at least until everything came out. I can barely stand to look at myself anymore knowing how much grief I’ve caused you._
> 
> _I keep wondering how you might have reacted if it hadn’t happened in such a horrid way and at the same time I know I might never have worked up the courage to tell you myself if it hadn’t happened at all. I don’t know anymore which one of us I was trying to save with all this deception and it doesn’t matter either; the outcome is the same. I was too worried about all the ways you could have reacted, I inevitably set course for the very worst case scenario I was scared of for months. Not only that, but I fear I’m making things worse with my absence_ _~~, which is another thing I don’t want to subject you to~~ _ _. This, at least (if it’s any comfort), I had no choice in. I want nothing more than to be back in London, no matter the outcome._ ~~_This uncertainty is maddening._ ~~
> 
> _Please know that even halfway across the world, you’re still the only thing on my mind. I think that may well be the case forever._

 

Eggsy discovers he’s forgotten how to breathe, the edges of the paper crinkled in his vice grip. If only Harry had known to say all these things to Eggsy months ago when he’d come back from America, because evidently he’d thought of them there. He thinks of the voicemail he deleted, wonders where it might have gone on to from where he stopped listening.

“Oh God.”

Harry had tried after all, but it was at a time when Eggsy wasn’t in the right headspace, when everything was too new and too monumental to conceive. Now though, the impact of something so simple can move tectonic plates.

Shaken up and unable to stop himself any longer, Eggsy finally decides to call back. He needs to speak to Harry right this instant, needs to let him know they’ll be okay. The line rings for what feels like forever and when someone does pick up, the voice isn’t Harry’s.

It’s so startling, Eggsy  misses the first few words the person on the line says and lands on: “Nurse Robinson.”

“Uh, I’m lookin’ for Harry Hart,” Eggsy says when he realises Harry wouldn’t have had a phone of his own to call with and that he must’ve gone through the clinic staff.

The nurse asks: “And your name is?”

“Unwin, Eggsy. Or, it’s probably under Gary, actually.”

“Ah, yes,” the nurse says slowly, “It seems Mr Hart was transferred to another facility this morning.”

“What?” Eggsy asks, head spinning. His eyes land on the words ‘whatever punishment’ as he tightens his grip on the letter. “How can I reach him?”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any contact details listed for him here, so you would have to be in touch with his primary contact person to reach him.”

_Merlin_ , Eggsy thinks immediately, murmuring a distracted, “Thanks, mate.”

 

* * *

 

 

“You’ve got some fucking nerve, you know that,” Merlin says and Eggsy is glad to be doing this over the phone. If Roxy is unequivocally his friend, Merlin is Harry’s, and he’ll be as fiercely protective of him as Eggsy is of Roxy and vice versa.

“Look, I know I fucked up,” Eggsy says, because it’s simultaneously appeasing and true, ““I promise you, I won’t do it again and what I’ve got to say to him is important. Really important. He _needs_ this.”

It’s the golden ticket, the argument Merlin can’t dismiss, because Harry has asked about Eggsy the way Eggsy has asked about him, the two of them perpetually missing each other.

Eggsy says, “I can’t promise you anything and I get that’s not exactly reassuring, but I’ve also been in Harry’s shoes and I know he wants answers. You don’t have to give a fuck about me. I honestly don’t care what you think of me, but don’t take this from him.”

Merlin sighs. “You’re a clever bastard.”

Eggsy, afire with nervous excitement, asks: “Where d’you want me?”

 

* * *

 

 

They meet an hour later at the tailor shop, Eggsy woefully out of place as he hovers in wait. Merlin eventually appears not from upstairs or through the front door, but in the door of one of the dressing rooms. If that isn’t strange enough, Eggsy is definitely confused at being called into the room with him.

“Okay, this is clearly not where you’re keeping Harry, so what are we doin’ in here?”

“That’ll become apparent if you just step away from the wall and suspend your beliefs for a while,” Merlin says. He presses a palm against the mirror, which lights up with a green grid, scanning Merlin’s handprint.

Bewildered, Eggsy takes an intuitive step backwards.

“I told you to keep clear of the walls,” Merlin says irritably, pulling Eggsy closer by the sleeve as clank rises from the seams of the room and the floor drops by a few inches, startling Eggsy.

It takes him a few moments to realise the brick walls are slowly rising around them.

“You couldn’t afford a fuckin’ lift, or what?” Eggsy asks, once he finds his bearings, the bottom of the dressing room door sliding past his face and out of reach.

“There are very few elegant ways to disguise one.”

“And exactly how deep does this fuckin’ thing go?” Eggsy asks after a moment of silence, looking up into the light fixtures in the dressing room thirty feet above. At the edge of the platform, the arch of the next door crowns, answering his question before Merlin can.

It’s an older fixture, the glass a smoky grey and all the paint on the frame chipped off or faded. Merlin pushes it open with some force and the suggestion of light on the other side bursts into bright fluorescence.

Eggsy finds himself on a tiny train platform facing an open four seater capsule. ”No way.”

 

* * *

 

 

Once he gets over the novelty of it, the train journey is unremarkable. Merlin doesn’t say a word and Eggsy spends the whole time staring at his reflection wavering in the window against the absolute darkness on the other side. He keeps waiting to pop up somewhere in the country when the curves under what he assumes is greater London stop, the train picking up even more speed, but they never do. They just end up on another concrete platform god knows where with Merlin looking as unconcerned as ever.

This time at least, there seems to be an entire underground network buried with the secret bullet train. Eggsy follows Merlin down endless, unpolished concrete and metal corridors, catching a glimpse of something here and there through a window.

Eventually they graduate to something less industrial – a tiny stone staircase that carries up into a massive, old kitchen and further up into an even larger dining room, eight pairs of french doors lined up on one side. Out in the garden, past the flowers, acres and acres of neat lawn that stretch on farther than Eggsy can see. After everything, this is where they should meet again: a house in the country.

Merlin pushes open the next set of doors to let Eggsy through into a carpeted hall. “Welcome to Kingsman Manor,” he says unceremoniously.

Eggsy looks at him first then up at the huge, dark, metal rendition of the Kingsman logo above the main doors. At the foot of the stairs there’s a cushioned bench and it dawns on Eggsy this is where Roxy spent all those weeks she was in rehab. The paintings lining the stairwell are old and serious enough to depict the founders of Kingsman and Eggsy thinks back to one of his first dates with Harry, of how he’d told Eggsy about Kingsman’s early days. Not a word of this.

Merlin treks up after Eggsy, passing him at the top of the stairs and sidestepping the platform lift.

“Harry should be doing independent exercises at the moment,” he says and Eggsy is reminded of why he’s been avoiding this.

Everything about their current situation is difficult. The underlying cause, Harry’s job - and Eggsy has yet to suss out what exactly that entails - is still morally objectionable; this lifestyle that’s shot through with money remains foreign to him; Harry’s injuries can’t be anything but severe and none of those things can alleviate the fact that they’re still desperately in love.

Eggsy is sweating just thinking about it all.

_It all_. He hates referring to entire stretches of his life by the wave of a hand and a non-descriptive, yet all encompassing term. Eggsy doesn’t want to label Harry as baggage, doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life lugging him around while trying not to think about any of it, knowing all the same he’d come running in a crisis. They’re in a crisis right now and here Eggsy is, hurrying toward him.

If they could be like they used to be – filled with fragile hope that never dared to expand beyond the very next date – maybe they’d be okay.

Merlin stops in front of a door like any other, Eggsy’s thoughts stalling as his heart rate picks up by two dozen paces.

“Do you need a moment?” Merlin asks him, hand pausing on the door knob.

Eggsy is tempted to say yes, but there’s no way to prepare for a moment like this. “Better not, I think.”

Merlin nods and knocks on the door firmly before opening it so that Eggsy is stood behind it.

“Harry,” he says, voice placatingly mellow, “I’m back. I brought someone with me.”

In the room, something shifts and Merlin does too, making way for Eggsy.

“Go slow,” Merlin whispers, shutting the door behind him.

Eggsy barely hears him though. Stranded just past the threshold, he lays eyes on Harry sat in a wheelchair at the other end of the sunlit room. He’s dressed in grey workout clothes, something easy and non-descript that is not at all like him. The eyepatch is still in place, taped on in the absence of the bandage.

“Hello,” Harry says, voice as crisp as ever, though there’s something lost about him.

“Hi,” Eggsy says. In the silence descending between them, Harry reaches for the blanket he’s abandoned on one of the bars by the wall. Eggsy, not knowing what else to say, blurts: “You’ve cut your hair.”

It sounds stupid the second it leaves his mouth, hanging in the room with nowhere to go. Harry blinks.

“Yes,” he says, “I don’t remember when though.”

His first admission of a lapse in memory. Eggsy tries to skim past it, but only ends up focusing on how Harry’s words carry slower than usual, like he’s cherry picking them and testing his sentences in his head before he says them aloud.

"You were there when I woke up,” Harry continues, seemingly having constructed his next thought.

“I was,” Eggsy agrees.

“Merlin refuses to tell me whether-” Harry swallows. Eggsy doesn’t know whether Harry doesn’t want to continue or can’t, but he’s got a pretty good guess of where this is going.

“I was there before that too,” he says, ”the whole time.”

“But not after.”

“No, not after.”

That of course warrants the dreaded question – “Why?”  – that Eggsy can’t answer. He keeps himself from simply saying, “I don’t know,” and instead counters with, “How much do you remember?”

“Enough,” Harry says. “The last thing I remember, or think I do, is London just before I left, the second time. Merlin says that was two weeks before I was shot.”

“So...”

“I haven’t forgotten about you, no,” Harry says like he doesn’t want to admit it and looks away.

_If he’d lost the whole year, would that make things easier?_ Eggsy wonders. He’s lost so much already, as it stands.

“Erm, I never asked ’bout your…” Eggsy points to his own eye, not quite knowing how to pose the question.

“That’s rather shot to pieces,” Harry says. His face twists into something that isn’t purely a frown, maybe more like a botched smile. Perhaps Harry can’t form facial expressions the way he wants to anymore. Eggsy doesn’t know how to ask about that though.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, not knowing what else one is supposed to do in a case like this.

Harry says, “Don’t be. This is not your fault.” Then, less weighted: “Apparently I will get a proper eye patch next week and then it is what it is.”

“Aren’t you upset?” Eggsy asks, stepping closer.

“Does it matter? The eye is gone no matter how I feel about it,” Harry says.

Eggsy almost says, “It doesn’t have to be,” before he realises how idiotic that would sound.

Harry adds, “I learned that from you, you know: impartial loss.”

“I never meant for it to turn out like that.”

“Me neither,” Harry says. He’s still staring at Eggsy with the one eye he does have. “Why are you here?”

It’s the same thing Eggsy has asked himself time and time again and the longer he thinks about it, the simpler the answer becomes. “‘Cause you matter to me. Maybe you don’t feel the same anymore-”

“I do,” Harry interrupts and for a moment their eyes lock like they did a week ago.

“I don’t know what I’m doin’, if I’m bein’ honest,” Eggsy continues hesitantly, “but I found this.” He pulls the now rumpled envelope out of his pocket and takes a few steps to extend it to Harry, waiting for a sign of recognition.

Harry takes a long look at the envelope, then Eggsy. “You’ve read it?” he asks, reaching for it. There’s a tremor in his hand.

“Yes,” Eggsy says and thinks there must be a tremor in his heart.

“And?”

“I want you back.”

Harry watches him for a long moment, his hair golden with the afternoon sun golden behind his head. Eggsy thinks it looks almost like a halo. “This is a bad idea,” Harry says eventually and Eggsy can’t help but smile nervously.

“Terrible.”

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“No.”


	25. Epilogue

Eggsy knocks his head on the sharp edge of the cupboard under the bar when he hears footsteps on the stairs and nearly drops the bottle he’s holding. For a moment, his world goes white with sharp pain and he swears heartily like he’s heard Merlin do countless times crouched in the exact same spot. The visceral reaction makes a lot more sense now Eggsy is acquainted with this particular cupboard, which was seemingly been built to scalp people.

Above him, Roxy asks, “You’re not bleeding again, are you?” leaning over the edge of the bar with a mischievous smile.

Eggsy would rather forget about that incident, in part because he’s still of the opinion that blood on a head wound  _ should _ be alarming, not that Roxy had agreed at the time. Rubbing the back of his head, Eggsy says, “‘M sure you’d love that.”

“Absolutely not. Merlin would side with you and it would somehow turn out to be my fault.”

“How and why would that ever happen?”

“Because, this place is still his pet project, and since you’ve risen to fill his shoes as Kingsman’s resident grouchy bartender he’s really taken to you. Either that or the fact that with you around he hasn’t had to pester Harry about therapy even once. You pick.”

“Okay, for starters, I ain’t grouchy,” Eggsy says, to which Roxy raises an unimpressed eyebrow and says, “It’s the job, not you, but the outcome is the same, ergo  _ grouchy _ .”

“Secondly,” Eggsy continues, undeterred, “Harry doesn’t need to be pestered about anythin’.”

“Not with you,” Roxy says sweetly.

Eggsy rolls his eyes and fishes a glass out for her to pour two fingers of almond liqueur into. This is their revised routine since she’s started spending more time abroad than on home soil: a pre-briefing drink for her to nurse while they throw a few jibes back and forth before they settle on a better time to meet.

Roxy lifts her glass in a silent toast and takes a long, delighted sip. “So, how has good old England fared in my absence?” she asks. She’s been gone for two months this time and it shows; a tan in early spring isn’t exactly the English art.

“You’d better ask Harry that.”

Just then, a single creak sounds from the staircase, then Harry’s voice, disembodied, calls out: “Ask me what?”

Roxy murmurs a startled, “Christ,” hand automatically gravitating toward the shoulder holster concealed under her blazer. She still isn’t used to Harry’s contingent stealth, the way he accidentally sneaks up on people by taking the stairs very slowly, always holding onto the railing and inadvertently staying close enough to the wall to miss the creaky bits that are meant to act as a warning sign on old steps like the ones at the club.

Eggsy, forever amused at this, says: “England.”

“That’s rather broad,” Harry says, coming around behind the bar to invade Eggsy’s realm effortlessly. “And it’s not a question either.”

Roxy pointedly sticks to her drink, hiding the curl of her mouth in the distortion of the rim of her glass. Eggsy looks away too and busies himself with a rag and the eternal mess of a leaky tap he can’t quite seem to fix. This put together, crisp version of Harry still flusters him from time to time.

In the silence, the bottles on the wall clink as Harry reaches for his favourite one, accidentally knocking it against another that protests, like a botched turn of Operation demanding attention.

Eggsy glances and wishes he hadn’t. Eggsy can tell by the set of Harry’s jaw he isn’t having a good day and that he’s decided to be stubborn about it. Harry ignores the protests of his own body and reaches for a glass. Pouring himself a drink even without any depth to his vision took him a long time to learn and he prides himself on it. Usually, it’s something small to steady himself with. Today though, Harry’s hand trembles, the neck of the bottle rattling against the glass as he spills some.

“Here, let me,” Eggsy says, stepping close enough to Harry to make him retreat a step and set the bottle back down.

Eggsy catches Harry’s fingers in one hand - the disobedient ones, the ones that make Harry grind his teeth without noticing - while he lifts the glass onto the rag to mop up the spill. Sometimes he wishes Harry could stop being so hard on himself, to not let a tremor frustrate him into being coiled so tight.

“Where is your tie?” Eggsy asks quietly, all too aware of Roxy still leaning on the counter even though she’s more occupied with her phone than the two of them.

In a gesture that’s become habit between them, Harry hands him a rolled up tie. Two years on and Harry’s coordination still isn’t what it used to be, likely never will be. In the meantime, Eggsy has learned to tie ties.

He steals his hand back from Harry to unfurl the fabric and settle it around his neck, black and gold stripes glistening in the spotlights above. Eggsy pulls the ends into place and crosses them. As he pulls one end through the neck loop, Roxy gives a long suffering sigh.

“Guess who’s been invited to another wedding?” she complains, “It’s another one of those weekend long country affairs too. God, when did it become acceptable to impose on people for three days for a single wedding, especially when it comes to plus ones.”

“‘S what you get for hanging ‘round a socialite,” Eggsy counters. “Who’s wedding is it anyway?”

“Not a clue. Duke something-something and no doubt a very pretty girl. Sophie’s stopped trying to loop me in until we actually get there; I’m better with faces than fifteen letter given names and their seven nickname variants.”

It’s not strictly true, of course. She’s excellent at names when she wants to be, namely when she’s spilling elite gossip during their ever rarer sleepovers, her head rolling lazily to rest on Eggsy’s shoulder as he Googles everyone she’s talking about, scandalised.

Harry says, “Don’t bother. Sooner or later, the entirety of the aristocracy will be related to one another anyway,” as Eggsy gets through the final loop on the knot.

Roxy sneers. “No doubt with quadruple hyphenated names. It’s worth it for the champagne alone though, and every wedding _ is _ an excuse to buy a new dress.”

Eggsy pulls the knot up and settles it in the hollow of Harry’s throat. Roxy adds, “On that subject matter, if you two ever want to get on with it, I’ve had my eye on a breathtaking Valentino for a special occasion and I’m afraid no one in the upcoming season is quite important enough to justify spending that much money.”

Eggsy, willing his hands not to betray him as he pulls the narrow end of Harry’s tie through the keeper loop, says, “I ain’t tyin’ the knot just so you can get a dress, no matter how stunnin’.”

“There certainly are better reasons to,” Harry agrees, gaze settled firmly on Eggsy. It’s intense in an illuminating way, heated enough to make Eggsy flush, so he turns away to pour Harry the drink they left halfway.

“You know what,” Roxy says, drawing Harry’s attention, “We should get going. Merlin’s going to get impatient soon.”

It’s blatant misdirection for Eggsy’s benefit, but Harry nods anyway, so she drinks the last mouthful of her liqueur, large enough to make her frown and clear her throat afterward, the aftertaste no doubt stinging. Harry knocks his own spirits back more gracefully, only the slightest twitch of discomfort tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Eggsy, knowing it’ll be gone in a moment, leans in to place a kiss onto his lips and catch the fading burn. It’s a juvenile impulse, but in that short instant, Harry is warm and pliable, eyes fluttering closed for just a second before he’s back online, brighter than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have, by some miracle, finally arrived at the end. I started this fic almost two years ago - give or take a summer - and never could have imagined it would expand into _this._ It was only supposed to be a two chapter meet cute, yet here we are: twenty-five chapters and seventy-seven thousand words later.
> 
> A lot of that is owed to the wonderful readers this story has had. Anyone who has left kudos or bookmarked this work, and in particular all the people that have left comments along the way. Nothing has been more motivating and encouraging than knowing there's someone out there just as keen to know where this is going as I was. About twenty chapters of this story exist solely because of you. In particular, I'd like to thank [Regency](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/pseuds/Regency) (whose works are brilliant btw) and [DemonicSymphony,](http://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony) who have been there from the very beginning. Of course I'm also eternally grateful to [childishzombiejellyfish](http://childishzombiejellyfish.tumblr.com/) for having been a fantastic BETA these last ten chapters.
> 
> By encouragement of a comment left by [osmsauce](http://archiveofourown.org/users/osmsauce/pseuds/osmsauce) I finally gathered some of the songs I've listened to while writing this into a [Spotify playlist.](https://open.spotify.com/user/obfuscatress/playlist/1B3M1FGPHsKQ0EekvWFICs) Admittedly, it's more about the emotional arc in this particular fic than e.g. music Eggsy might've danced to at Kingsman, but then this Stripper AU did rather get out of hand.
> 
> Lastly, there will be two spin-off one-shots to this story at some point. They will appear as works inspired by this one, NOT as a series, so subscribing to this work won't let you know about them. If you're interested in those or any future Hartwin/Kingsman stuff I might put out (there should be a few fics, possibly a shorter multichap over the summer), the easiest, most spam free ways to stay updated are either a user subscription here on Ao3 or leaving your tumblr url below so I can tag/contact you. You can also find me on tumblr at [obfuscatress.tumblr.com](http://obfuscatress.tumblr.com/) or on twitter [@shippress](https://twitter.com/Shippress) :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Amateur](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11754261) by [obfuscatress](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obfuscatress/pseuds/obfuscatress)




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